


This Kind of Chaos

by noodleincident2001



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Identity Issues, Magical Realism, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Race, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodleincident2001/pseuds/noodleincident2001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern!AU with Hades and Persephone. Hayden Underwood is wealthy lawyer in Washington, D.C. struggling to overcome his personal demons; Seph Primavera is a young college student doing her best to make ends meet. A story that revolves around identity, family, and friendship, This Kind of Chaos explores what it means to love oneself and others. Elements of magical realism and fantasy to come into play shortly. Rated M for mature content relating to mental illness, identity, sexuality, etc. Give it a shot, let me know what you think in the comments, please! Disclaimer: this is a fanfic, and I mean no disrespect to people who actively worship these deities. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

           Inhale. Cinnamon, old leather, and a dash of perfume saturate the office. Pause—it’s more than a dash of perfume. Much, much more. Inhale, a bigger breath, focused on the scents of the fragrance. They are: peaches, vanilla, and musk from an animal.

           “…Hayden, you’re drifting off again.” He blinks twice, comes back down to Earth. “Sorry,” he says, thumbing at the growing hole in the knee of his jeans. He really needs to buy a new pair. “Where were we again?”

           Dr. Murphy sits up. Her first name is Montserrat, and she has never worn a wedding band at any of these little sessions. Hayden doesn’t like to pry, though, so the Mystery of Murphy will stay just that until she ever decides to tell him anything about herself. And that’d only be fair; after all, he’s told her plenty. _Although_ , he muses, _plenty by my standards probably isn’t that much_.  And besides, that’s not how these things are supposed to work. She is the doctor— _psychiatrist_ , he reminds himself— and he is the patient. It’s _his_ job to bare his soul so that he can “get better,” not hers.

           “Your brother invited you to his birthday party this past Saturday. Did you go?”

           “Yes.” A lie.

           “Really?” The smile comes easily enough to Dr. Murphy, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Hayden grits his teeth. _Caught_.

           But he decides to continue anyway. “Yes,” he says again. “It was fun, too. I got a girl’s number and everything.”

           The easy smile is gone, turned into a pitying frown. “Hayden, this is a safe space. You don’t have to lie to me. It’s not good for you, and it’s a waste of my time.”

           Is it him, or has the hole in his jeans gotten even bigger since he’s been sitting here? “Sorry,” Hayden says again.

           “Could you tell me why you didn’t end up going to the party like you promised you would?”

           “Business came up.”

           “I see.” Murphy’s not convinced, of course. “Don’t bullshit me, Hayden.”

           He sighs. “I arrived at Claw, walked in, and then promptly walked out.”

           “Why, Hayden? Why did you feel the need to leave?”

 _Oh, I don’t know, Dr. Murphy. Maybe it was the incredibly loud, incomprehensible trap music; or the smell of sex and sweat, even in the VIP section; or the fact that by the time I got there, Zane and Peter were already so drunk that they were nearly having an orgy with two barely-legal girls—and one barely-legal boy—in front of their wives. Taking all that into consideration, I don’t know what could’ve possibly made me leave, Dr. Murphy._ Hayden wants to laugh at himself; he sounds like a curmudgeonly old man.  “It hurt to be there,” he tells her. That’s the truth, when you get right down to it.

           “It was too much,” Dr. Murphy says, nodding as if she’s waiting for him to confirm the assessment she’s made of his feelings. He nods for her in return, and she continues, “A sensory overload.”

           “Yes.”

           “Would you consider it to be a triggering experience?”

           “I would.”

           She sighs, but her easy smile returns. “That’s okay. You tried. Let’s take it as a sign of progress…”

           Dr. Murphy has beautiful bookshelf, furnished with equally beautiful books, Hayden realizes, all leather-bound and gilded in gold and silver. _Must be where the leather smell comes from._ It certainly doesn’t come from the cheap IKEA couch he’s been sitting on for the past 30 minutes. The bookshelf, along with its leather books and their leather smell, is a new addition to her office. _And a nice one, too._

          “You like Machiavelli?” he asks. That catches Dr. Murphy off guard. “ _E_ ‑ _e_ xcuse me?”

          “You have _The Prince_ up on your bookshelf.” Hayden points to where the book is: third shelf, at the very end of the row on the right-hand side, smaller than most of the others but bound in red leather. Impossible to miss, really. Dr. Murphy seems embarrassed, and he feels embarrassed for embarrassing her. “There’s nothing wrong with liking Machiavelli or _The Prince_ —”

          “You drifted again. We’re not here to talk about me, Hayden, we’re here to talk about you.” She sounds angry now. The anger is measured, controlled, but it’s there, roiling right beneath the surface of her genial façade. Hayden almost apologizes again, but he knows that’ll be the third “sorry” he will have said during this session, and words lose their meaning if you say them too often. Instead he says, “You’re right, Doctor. Please, continue.”

          Not skipping a beat, Dr. Murphy asks, “How have your nightmares been?”

 _Unbearable._ “Manageable.”

          “And the migraines?”

 _Also unbearable_. “Also manageable.”

          “Any more hallucinations?”

          “…They still come and go.”

          “So their frequency is about the same or less?”

          “…About the same.”

          “But you can still tell when you’re hallucinating.”

          “Yes. Well, the dog brings me out of it.”

          “And these hallucinations have remained consistent? That is, content-wise, they’re the same?”

          “I still see fire and war.” _And sometimes the sky looks like its about to fall and crush me._

          “And the nightmares have remained the same as well?”

           A dark basement, heavy steps on the creaking staircase down, down, down, into the gloom where _He_ put them; _He_ , who itches and irritates in Hayden’s mind and soul without a day of reprieve. “Yes.” The hole in the knee of his pants has definitely gotten bigger. _Serves me right for picking at it…_

          “I see,” Dr. Murphy says, more to herself than to him. She takes out her pen, starts writing on a small notepad. “Well, you’ve only been taking the sertraline and paroxetine for about seven weeks, so I’m not too surprised that we haven’t seen much improvement yet.” She writes and writes and writes her notes. The room doesn’t smell like cinnamon and leather anymore. It smells like nothing.

           After a few more minutes of “Why?” and “How does that make you feel?” Dr. Murphy finally— _finally_ —lets him leave.

           The Metro ride from Union Station to DuPont Circle is only a few stops, but by the time he gets home, Hayden’s ready to collapse. _Eat, then sleep._ Cerberus nuzzles against thigh, clearly wanting a taste of the rigatoni pasta dinner he’s making.

           “Nuh-uh, dogs aren’t supposed to have pasta.” Another nuzzle. “No, Cerberus.” This time, the black lab barks. “Okay, okay, fine. You know, I thought that they trained you service dogs not to beg?”

            Cerberus barks happily when Hayden fills his food bowl with pesto-covered pasta. “I guess this is what I get for spoiling you.”

_“How’s the dog working out?”_

_“The dog is the only thing that’s worked out pretty well.”_

           Hayden feels a hesitant smile tug at the edges of his mouth. “Finish up dinner and then we’ll go sleep, buddy.” 6:30pm is early to go to bed, even for him, but he feels a great tiredness in his bones. “Yeah, eat, then sleep.”

           Reclining back on his couch with a bowl of pasta, Hayden pulls out his phone to check his messages. _Shit, my phone’s been on silent all day?_

           The home screen displays five texts from Peter, a voicemail from Zane, 100 unread emails, and a battery at 35%. Hayden decides to check Peter’s texts first:

 

            **Pete (10:00am)**

            hey hayden where were u on sat?

            **Pete (12:00pm)**

            i know ur bad at checking your phone but cmon man

            **Pete (1:00pm)**

            hayden answr me plz

            **Pete (2:00pm)**

            HAYDEN. HAYDEN, ARE YOU ALIVE?

            **Pete (3:00pm)**

            okay, u don’t want to talk. I just want to know how youre doing. zane says you haven’t shown up to work in a while. I’m here for you brother

 

            Hayden’s ribs make a cracking sound when he exhales. He writes, “I’m okay,” then backspaces just when he’s about to press SEND, and decides to listen to Zane’s voicemail instead.

 

 

> Sup, Hayden? We missed you at my birthday party on Saturday. My wife says
> 
> she saw you come in for a few minutes and leave looking a little green. Man,
> 
> are you still sick? I haven’t seen you at the office for weeks, and Lizardi is
> 
> starting to worry about you. What’s going on with you, Hayden? I went over
> 
> to your house today and your butler told me that you moved out? …Call me
> 
> when you can.

 

         Just as Hayden is about to dial Zane, his phone starts to ring with his brother’s name in the caller ID. Hayden clears throat, presses ANSWER.

 

         “…Hello?”

         “Hey, there he is! Sup, Brother? Pete’s been trying to reach you all day.”

         “Er, I’ve been—”

         “Busy, we all know. But busy with _what_ , exactly, _nobody_ knows. You haven’t come in to work for almost two months. You working for another firm or something? I heard that Lizardi wanted to make you partner…”

         Hayden feels a migraine coming on. Heavy drums pound at the back of his eyelids. “No, I’m not working for another firm.”

         “That’s a relief, haha! I was only screwing with you, you know. Still, two months is a long time, Hayden.”

         “I know. I’ve decided to—,” _Take an indefinite leave of absence_ ,“—take a year-long sabbatical.”

          Loud laughter on the other line—gregarious, obnoxious, Zane.

         “You’re not some tenured prof at a university, Brother. We have cases, the Hamilton Group just did a megaton document dump on us; you can’t just up and leave.”

          Pounding, pounding, pounding drums. _Go away._    

          “I’m sick, Zane. I can’t work right now.”

          “And that’s another thing, you haven’t told me or Peter or Lizardi or even our sister what you have. Sis is convinced that you’ve come down with cancer or lupus or something.”

          “I don’t have cancer or lupus.”

          “Then what the fuck, man? What are you so sick with that you can’t work?”

           Pounding, pounding, _crACK!_ “It’s really none of your fucking business, Zane.”

          “None of my business? _None of my business?_ I’m your brother, asshole. But if you don’t want to talk, then fine. By the way, I’ll be borrowing your Bentley for the time being.”

 _Wait. What?_ “Don’t touch my car.”

           “Too late. Besides, it’s not like you really need it in DuPont or Foggy Bottom or wherever the hell you’re living right now.”

           “ _Zane._ ”

           “Don’t worry, I’ll be paying you a visit tomorrow, soon as I get that butler of yours to tell me your new address, and you’ll get to see her. But until you come back to work or tell me what the fuck is wrong with you, I’ll be driving her around.”

          “Zane, you get the hell away from my car right now. Zane. Zane! ZANE!” The other side of the line clicks and then dies. _If that kid scratches my car…_

           Hayden looks down at the bowl of pasta in his lap; it’s cold now, and he’s no longer hungry. “Leftovers for tomorrow. C’mon, boy, let’s go to bed.” In the morning he’ll try to go to the gym. _That’ll be pleasant._ He hasn’t exercised since he got Cerberus. _Three weeks without going to the gym…tomorrow is going to be pain city._ After that, he’ll head to the bookstore; maybe try to make some light conversation.

 

_“Have you always had social anxiety?”_

_“No. Er, well, at least I don’t think so. I’ve always been a little shy, but that’s not abnormal…right?”_

_“No, shyness is not abnormal. But these feelings that you’re having around people, even family members—that’s abnormal. From now on, every day until we are done with our sessions, I want you to have a long conversation with a stranger.”_

 

           Oh yes: tomorrow is definitely going to be pain city.


	2. Chapter 2

            “Mamma, I’m heading to work!” Seph slings her backpack over her shoulder.

            “Wait, wait, wait just a minute girl. Let yo’ momma give you kiss goodbye. Oh. Oh my God. Baby, what did you do to your hair?”

            Seph self-consciously rubs the top of her head. “I was tired of the ‘fro, Ma.”

            “You look like a boy now.”

            “Gee, thanks.”

            “Hehehe, I’m just playing, sweetie. Go on, get to work, beautiful girl.”

            Seph smiles, wide and pretty, and gives her mom a kiss on the cheek. “Love you, Mamma. I want to get most of my paper done at the library, but I’ll try to be back home by 10:00 tonight.”

            “Okay, baby. Have a good day.”

            When Seph gets to her job at the Barnes & Noble Starbucks, she knows that her time there is not going to be very enjoyable.

            “Late the first day, huh? Supervisor ain’t gonna like that, girl.”

            “I know, I know, but there was some weird holdup on the Metro, and—” Seph takes a deep breath. “You don’t think she’ll fire me on the first day for this, do you?”

            Angie—that’s what her nametag says—shakes her head. “Naw, but she ain’t gonna give you no warm welcome, neither. Speak of the devil…hello, Ms. Seeger.”

            Ms. Seeger has wild, curly orange hair and terrible acne scars on her cheeks and forehead. “Get back to work, Angie,” she snaps. She also currently has a very angry looking pimple right on the tip of her nose and she does not look happy to see Seph.

            “Late on the first day, Miss Primavera. That’s the first strike, one more and you’re gone, understand?”

            “Yes ma’am.”

            Satisfied, Ms. Seeger pivots on her heel and walks back into the bookstore.

            Seph turns her towards the sound of Angie whistling. “Dat right der? Dat was a close one, honey. You musta caught Ms. Seeger on a bad day, mhmm. I’m Angie, by the way.” She sticks out a chubby hand.

            “Seph,” Seph replies, taking hold of Angie’s hand. They shake. “Nice to meet you, Angie.”

            Angie gives her a big, toothy grin. “Aight, aight. Now, as soon as them doors open, white people gon’ be flooding in here like it’s the End of Days. White people love their Starbucks, you know. So just be prepared fo’ dat. You ready?”

            “Yes, Angie. I’m ready.”

            She was not ready. Angie was right; as soon as Barnes & Noble opened its doors, people started pouring in to get their Starbucks fix. Most of the people _were_ white too, not that it really mattered in the long run.  By 10:00am, Seph was already exhausted; now that it’s almost 12:00, she feels like a zombie. _Thirty more minutes, Seph, you can do this._ Her feet ache, her fingers are numb, and she still has three classes to go to after this. _I hate being poor._

            “Heya, Hayden, how you doin’?”

            “Hey Angie. I’m doing well, how are you?” Something about the voice makes Seph look up from her mind-numbing task of making drinks. It’s soft, but deep; a low rumble in the owner’s chest, that has the quality of an echo from some far-off place she’s never been to before. Mamma would say that it’s a poet’s voice, a layered voice. _Maybe he’s cute?_ she wonders with a sly grin.

            Seph sneaks a quick peak of the man, and she likes what she sees. His dark, softly curling hair is tousled in such a way that it looks like he just woke up. Seph smiles to herself. _This guy definitely pulls off the bedhead look._ He has pretty, sea-blue eyes that stand out beneath nice lashes, and a well-groomed beard, too. He’s _very_ cute, Seph decides; he’s a welcome piece of sunshine for her gloomy first day at work.

            “I’m doin’ fine, sir, thank you fo’ askin’. Will that be your usual ordah?”

            “Yes, the dark roast, please. Thank you.”

            “No, honey, thank you. Seph, we got a dark roast!”

            “On it!” Seph replies, stealing another look at the stranger. She feels slightly silly for acting like such a little schoolgirl, but she figures that these fun moments will keep her from losing her mind working here. When the drink is ready, she calls out his name. “Hayden!” _He’s got a dog with him. Looks like service dog, too. That’s interesting…_

            “Hayden!” she calls again, this time a little louder. His shoulders set and she thinks she might’ve startled him. He turns around, stares at her for a couple seconds with a bemused look on his face, picks up his drink from the counter, and sits at a table on the far right. The far, _far_ right. As far away as one can get from the Starbucks counter without actually leaving the café.   _Well, you may be cute, but you’re a little weird, dude._ She got a better glance at his face when he grabbed his drink, and Seph thinks that he looks vaguely familiar.

            “Hey Angie, is that guy an actor or something?”

            Angie starts to laugh as she begins to take an order from another customer. “Hell naw, girl. That’s Hayden Underwood.” Hayden Underwood, Hayden Underwood, Hayden Underwood…Seph racks her brain with the name, but comes up with nothing. Two frappes done, 10 more minutes to go. “I don’t recognize the name.”

            “I didn’t neither, but Ms. Seeger told me an’ err’one else who works here dat man be richer than the Lord God in heaven.” Angie laughs her big, throaty laugh again. “He don’t dress well for a rich man though, no sir. Looks more like a hobo that walked in off the street, especially now that he’s got that damn dog with him. Ayy, but he sure is cute, though, I’ll give him that much. Awkward as hell, but as long as he keeps comin’ here to bright up my day, well, s’all good with me.” Seph doesn’t think he really looks like a hobo, per se, more like he just throws on whatever articles of clothing he has laying around the house and hopes that they match. It’s the look of a man who doesn’t care. Angie is right: Mr. Underwood does not dress like a rich man. _At least he trims his beard._

            “He comes in here everyday?”

            Angie smiles at her. “He sure does. Buys a book and a coffee err’day and spends a couple hours reading. Has been fo’ the last couple of months.”

_Okay, maybe working at Starbucks won’t be so bad after all…_


	3. Chapter 3

            Seph stares dead-eyed at her paper. She’s written five pages in three hours—and that’s after working in the morning and then going to class. Her energy is spent.

            “Hey, Seph. Wow. Long day?” Seph looks up, breathes a sigh of relief. It’s her best friend, Jess Thaw, and she has on her customary purple eyeliner and leather jacket, even though it’s been raining most of the day. “Longer than a porn star’s dick. Could I have a sip of your coffee?”

            Jess smirks. “You paint with words. And sure, if you can get it down. It’s gross.” She sits, kicks her boots up onto the table and folds her hands behind her head. “Starbucks is tough work. I told you so, but you were all, ‘How bad could it possibly be?’ Bitch, that’s how bad. But nooo, you had to be all, ‘I’ll be fine, Jess, you’re wrong, Jess, look at me, Jess.’ Nobody ever listens to Jess. See? Now you’ve got me speaking in third person about myself. This is what happens when people don’t listen to Jess.”

            Seph takes a sip of the coffee. Jess was right: it’s terrible. It’s strong though, and Seph needs a buzz to keep her awake. “Spare me,” she says, starting a new paragraph in her paper, “I know already. But I need to make money somehow, and just working at the RHO isn’t cutting it. ”

            Jess pulls out a candy bar, unwraps it, and starts loudly chewing. “Pffft,” she says between bites, “just get a sugar daddy, ho. Or a sugar momma, like Efron did. Nice haircut, by the way. Now you can’t complain about people comparing you to Huey from _The Boondocks_.”

            “My mom would kill me, resurrect me, and then kill me again. And thanks—I think. ” The idea _has_ crossed Seph’s mind before, especially when she and her mother were struggling to pay the rent on top of tuition and schoolbooks. She’s even looked at a couple of websites—though she would never admit that to anyone, not even Jess. And besides, she doesn’t want to be beholden to a man (or a woman) for anything. She saw what happened to her mother; she won’t make the same mistake. No, it’s better to make her own money, even if the extra work leaves her feeling more exhausted. She’s worked two jobs before, though; she can get through this. She has to.

             “I’ll pass on the sugar daddies. And sugar mommas. Any sugar people.”

            “Whatevs, Seph. Girls with sugar daddies make bank. I bet sugar mommas give good money, too. I’d get myself one, but trying to weed out the creepy Asian fetishists has proven to be, um, effing impossible, so yeah.”

            “And you think I’d fair better as a black, Latina woman?”

            “You know what?” chew, chew, chew, “Probably not. Never mind, forget I said anything. What are you even working on?”

            _That stupid philosophy paper for Shinn_. “Nietzsche and the Eternal Recurrence.”

            Jess wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

            “It’s extra, is what it is.” Seph really can’t write one more word. She hates philosophy, and out of all the philosophers she’s studied in Shinn’s class, she hates Nietzsche most of all.

            Seph checks her watch: it’s 9:20. She has to leave now, or risk being late and worrying her mother into cardiac arrest. She takes one more sip of coffee, puts away her laptop, and swings her backpack over her shoulder.

            Jess rolls her eyes. “I really can’t believe you have a curfew.”   

            “Shut up, it’s not a curfew. My mom gets worried.” If she could, Seph would live in a dorm, but housing is expensive. Jess’s family lives in the city too, but they’re rich and can afford to pay for her dorm housing. Seph longs to have that kind of freedom; for now, though, she has responsibilities towards her mother.

            Jess shrugs her shoulders. “Whatevs. That’s a curfew. Your mom has you on a curfew. But whatevs: deny, deny, deny. See you tomorrow in Wilson’s. And you better tell me who the cute guy is on your phone, too.” Crap, she forgot about him. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Awkward. _And Handsome, too_ , she thinks. Seph bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too widely.

            “He’s just a random guy.”

            “Mhmm, that’s what they all are. Don’t worry; your secret’s safe with me.”

            _No really, he’s just a random guy I saw when I was working at Starbucks._ But he’s not. If Angie is to be believed—and Seph doesn’t see why she would lie—Mr. Underwood comes into the Starbucks every day, or nearly every day. And Seph feels like she’s seen him before, maybe on a billboard or a bus stop, dressed in a sharp suit like the big shot lawyer he’s supposed to be. _Big shot lawyer on top of already being heir to a multibillion-dollar fortune,_ she reminds herself.

            It was mindboggling, really, when she typed his name into the search bar and saw his picture come up next to names like Warren Buffet and Bill Gates. He was rich and even a little famous but his Wikipedia page was a sparse disappointment, stating only the facts that she already knew: a) he was rich; b) he was a lawyer, and unmarried. The article didn’t even list a date of birth. Mr. Tall, Dark, Awkward, and Handsome had just turned into Mr. Tall, Dark, Awkward, Handsome, _and_ Mysterious. Frustrated, she put her phone down, unlocked, and started writing her paper.

_Jess isn’t gonna let this go,_ Seph thinks as she heads out of the library. But then again, her family _is_ rich; maybe Jess knows something about the guy? _Yeah, like all rich people know each other and hang out together._ Seph shakes her head; she’s spending too much time thinking about a guy who she’s only glanced at. _I need to be home already._

            It takes her longer than she thought it would, but she finally gets home after 30 minutes on the Metro.

            “Ma,” Seph calls as she opens the door to their old, two-bedroom apartment. She shuffles off her shoes, hangs up her umbrella. “Ma, I’m home.”

            The bathroom door opens and her mother’s head pops out, not unlike a groundhog. She’s brushing her teeth, so her mouth is sudsy. “Yesh, babby gurrl, there’s froood emm tha kirtchen frountah.”

            “Uhhh…”

            Her mother’s head disappears back into the bathroom. Seph hears the distinct sound of spit hitting the porcelain sink, and not long after her mother steps out from the bathroom.

“Sorry, baby girl,” she says, walking over to kiss her on the cheek, “I meant to say that that I left you some food on the kitchen counter. How was your day?”

            _Tiring. I don’t think I can work two jobs on top of schoolwork and trying to land an internship._

            Her mother’s gentle smile turns into a frown. “That bad, huh? You don’t have to do this sweetie, you know. You work hard enough already.”

            That’s not true; Seph knows that in her heart. Her mother is the one who works three jobs to help pay for her education and a place to live. Her mother is the one with an aching back from the accident. Sure, Seph may not be able to dance like she used to, but she needs to start contributing more; her mother can’t do all the work.

            “I’m fine, Mamma,” she says, doing her best to look and sound reassuring. “It’s not a hard job. I just have to get used to working there, is all. Everything will be okay, trust me.”

            “Don’t worry, baby, I trust you. It’s the world that makes me nervous.”          

            “I’m alright, Mamma, I swear.”

            “Mmm’kay. Well go on, go eat. It’s late and I have to work early tomorrow. G’night, sweetie.”

            “Night, Ma.” Her mother gives her another kiss on the cheek before heading back into her bedroom.

            Seph sets down her backpack, heads into the kitchen. It smells like Mamma made soup. Seph pours herself a bowl and flips on their small television. Mamma had it on the news.

            “…We’re here with American University student, Piyusha Patel. Piyusha, could you tell the viewers back home what you saw?”

            “It went just like in the video, I swear. That Sebastian dude just started screaming at the guy and then his apostles or whatever started screaming too. Like, I don’t even, like, I mean, it’s just… _I_ -I don’t know. It was raining pretty hard and thundering, but Sebastian’s voice just carried over all that. And what he was saying? I don’t even know. It all sounded like hella-loud gibberish to me. I pass by Sebastian all the time and he’s just the typical “Fire and Brimstone” street preacher, y’know? This was something else, though.” _Yeah, but_ _is it really newsworthy?_ Seph wonders.

             But as the girl talks more, the video plays. A man with a black lab stands at the edge of the street, while “Saint Sebastian” screams in his face. _No, it can’t be…_ Seph sits up to get a better view of what’s happening on-screen. At one point, it looks like Sebastian even grabs the man by the coat lapels. Then lighting flashes and the video ends. _No way—that wasn’t him. No way._

            “Thank you, Piyusha. And John, we’re just getting word that the man in the video is Mr. Hayden Underwood. No charges have been filed yet against Sebastian Jones. Back to you, John.”

            Seph almost spits out her soup. “You have _got_ to be kidding me,” she says, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

            She turns on her phone, looks at the article she’d been reading on him earlier at the library. She gazes at his picture. She didn’t notice it when he was at the bookstore, but he has a scar running through his left eyebrow. His nose is also slightly… _off_ , like it’s been broken one or two times before.“Who _are_ you, dude?” The news plays the video clip one more time, and it’s more than a little unnerving. “I guess I’ll have to find out the old-fashioned way.” Seph slaps her forehead. _As if I’m not busy enough already…_

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason AoOO won't keep my italics for character thoughts. I'll try and see if I can fix the problem, and I apologize for any confusing regarding what is meant to be narration and what is meant to be Hayden or Seph's direct thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

            Lithe, pretty hands are on him, raking well-manicured fingernails down his abdomen. Hayden thinks that the rakes are supposed to be pleasurable, but they really only hurt and make his head spin. _How did I get here?_ He feels a warm, wet sensation on him, followed by several languid tugs, and his head snaps down to find a blonde staring back with a mischievous grin. She takes him in her mouth again, bobbing her head up and down and up and down and using her hands to intermittently cup him and rub his belly. The girl— _what’s her name?_ —swirls her tongue around the tip and he finds himself threading trembling fingers through her blond locks. He can’t deny that this feels nice—sort of, anyway—but hours are missing. _How did I get here?_

            Hayden tries to remember, recall an earlier time in the day when things made a bit more sense. His mind is sluggish, filled with cogs that struggle to turn as if they’ve rusted from lack of use. But it hasn’t been that long, he knows that; he just needs to take one step, two steps, and then another and another to catch what’s been lost. _How did I get here?_

            He went to the gym, took Cerberus with him. That’s what he did after waking from a fitful sleep. There was a clear smell of air freshener trying to cover up the scent of sweat that had long since saturated into the walls and exercise equipment.

            “Excuse me, sir,” the check-in girl said, “you can’t bring your dog in here.”

            “First of all, this is a service dog. Second of all, I own the building. He comes in with me.”

            Wait, was that how it went? No—it feels wrong. Turn back, reverse, return, retrace. Now, how did it go?

            “Excuse me, sir, you can’t bring your dog in here.”

            “Really? But he’s my service dog and I need him.”

 

            _No, no, no, that’s not right_. He’s slogging through a thick soup of mud trying to review his steps. _It’s the drugs._ First it was the gym and the incident with the dog, he knows that much. (Now the girl is climbing on top of him. “What are ya waiting for?” he thinks she asks. “Fuck me, already!”)

 

            What happened next, then? Concentrating, concentrating, trying to find a figment of a memory. It didn’t happen long ago, it couldn’t have, and yet the memory eludes him. Nostrils flare—roses. Not overpowering, but there, underneath the smell of newly printed books and overpriced coffee. Roses that conjure up feelings long lost andlong buried.

            The bookstore. He saw a girl there. Not the one currently rutting against him, but a different girl. _The_ girl. She smelled of roses, but it wasn’t perfume; it was _her_. He looked at her and saw that she was adorned with precious jewelry: a gold circlet crown and bracelets that shined brilliantly against her dark skin. A goddess. She could pardon him, forgive him for his transgressions, or she could destroy him. He wasn’t sure which he wanted.

            She held her chin up high, and with a regal voice, said, “Hayden, sir, your coffee is ready.” And it was ridiculous for her to say those words, because she was a queen, too, and a queen does not serve _coffee_. But then she was just a girl again, younger than even Zane, his baby brother. Her deep brown eyes looked at him expectantly, and she gave him a small wave as she was leaving—did he wave back? It’s so difficult to remember…

           (The girl has his chin between her thumb and forefinger. She isn’t very strong, but her nails are digging into his skin and leaving red marks on his cheeks and neck. Is she angry? She seems angry. She says something to him, he’s not sure what, and now he’s on top. He forces her to her knees and takes her from behind. Is she moaning? Does she like this?)  

           He left the bookstore, started making his way down to the Metro Center. Where would he go next? He wasn’t sure. He knew that he didn’t want to go back to his apartment just yet. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the sky turned black. It would rain soon.

           Hayden came to a stoplight, waited for the crossing sign to come back on. People were standing all around him, brandishing signs and shouting. He remembered when he used to go to protests—when he was young enough and naïve enough to think that such demonstrations had the power to change anything.

           Another thunderclap, this time much closer. The smell of rain filled the air, coated everything around it. A lying promise of rebirth; it was already fall.

          “This is a sign from God! All you heathens will pay for your sins!” shouted a hoarse voice, a familiar voice. A voice so much like the one that claws at the back of his mind, drags him down in nightmares. Hayden turned to look at the man standing only a few feet away from him. “False gods and false idols and those who worship them shall all perish in His true light!” The man’s eyes were cloudy with cataracts, but Hayden had the alarming feeling that he was staring at him, addressing him. _I’ve seen this guy in the news before._

          Saint Sebastian, he was called: a street preacher with a rather large and rabid following. Monotheists, though the jury was still out on whether or not theirs was the God of Abraham. Hayden had unknowingly stepped into one of Saint Sebastian’s famous sermons; he was one man alone amongst the zealots.

         “Which are you, rich man?” The crossing sign had since come back on, though Sebastian’s followers had cut off his path of escape. Panic surged through him. “Which are you, rich man?” one of the followers asked, grabbing his shoulder.

         (The sensations are so far away from him right now. She meets him thrust for thrust. He thinks, hopes, that maybe that’s finally doing something, because his body feels like it’s being cooked.)

         “Don’t touch me!” Cerberus started barking and growling. The smell of rain had grown thicker and Hayden’s shirt felt sticky and uncomfortable against his skin. The followers had pushed him closer to Saint Sebastian until they were almost face-to-face. Sebastian’s knobby fingers grabbed tightly onto the lapels of Hayden’s jacket, holding him in place. “You smell like a false god. You smell like a deceiver.”

          Cloudy eyes, piercing, and he couldn’t get away. Thunder roared, and the rain began to come down in sheets. Hayden couldn’t breathe. Was this real? He didn’t want it to be real. There were too many people, this man was too close— _do something!_ “I’m not any of those things.” He tried to keep his voice calm; inside his nerves were screaming.

          “You dare think you are above Him, our most gracious and merciful Lord?”

 _FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD!_ Sebastian’s followers chanted. _DECIEVER, DECEIVER, DECIEVER!_

          “I’m just a man,” Hayden said. Crushed in a vice, that’s what it felt like: surrounded by a mob, and no place to go.  “I’m just a man,” he repeated.

 

          Lightning flashed and the world became white and blinding.

 

_FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD!_

 

         (Hayden soon realizes that his body only feels that way because the apartment is melting around him.)

 

           When he opened his eyes again, the crowd was gone. No—they were on the other side of the street, Sebastian and his followers. Were they coming after him? Hayden couldn’t tell, and he had no interest in waiting to find out, either. He decided then that he would head home. The day had not gone well.

 

         (There’s fire everywhere, and the sky looks like it’s about to shatter into a million pieces. _It’s not real_ , he tells himself. _Concentrate on the girl_.

The problem is, he doesn’t particularly like the girl.)

 

          With shaking hands, Hayden opened the door to his apartment. The sight of his brother Zane with his hand halfway up a blond woman’s shirt is what greeted him. Cerberus began to growl. ( _How did I get here?_ )

           The girl quickly jumped out of Zane’s lap, her pale cheeks turning bright red with shame. Zane stood up, smiled that 100-watt smile of his that makes him paradoxically endearing and incredibly punchable.  “There you are, Brother. Mindy and I were beginning to wonder if you’d ever come back. As you can see, we got a little bored waiting for you, haha.” Cerberus barked again, doing his best to sound as vicious as a lab can. Zane kept smiling. “Nice dog.”

          “Cerberus, down. How did you get into my apartment?”

          “I kicked the door down.” Hayden had a frightened, paranoid moment where he almost looked back to see if what his brother had said was true. _Idiot, you just opened the door and walked in. The door is fine._ “I’m going to call the cops.”

           “Will you relax? Jeez, your butler lent me his extra key.”

           It was coming back: the pounding and chanting, reverberating in his head. _FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD!_ He needed to lie down. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Hayden said, “Get out. Both of you. Get out or I call the cops.”

 

          (The world is on fire and the girl is gone. _How did I get here?)_

          “I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on, Hayden. Look at yourself. Your hair’s a mess and you’re dressed like a street person. You look like shit.”

           Hayden had a small chuckle at that. It felt good to laugh, if only for a little while. “Well, at least I look better than I feel.”

           Zane walked over, clapped Hayden on the shoulder. Eyes the color of gray storm clouds gazed up at him. His little brother knew when to be stern, too. Somehow Hayden had forgotten that. With a low voice, Zane asked, “Have you been using again?”

            “What? No.” Hayden kept an eye on the blond girl. She was sitting with a pair of mint-green headphones in her ears, pretending not to listen.

            Zane nodded, pulled out an orange container from his blazer pocket. “I found an old bottle of Zoloft in your trash.”

            The drums in his head were loud now, nearly impossible to ignore. _FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD!_ Cerberus kept barking. Hayden balled his left hand into a fist. “You broke into my apartment and went through my trash. You better get the hell out before I beat your ass, kid.”

            “It’s bad business to threaten a lawyer. You taught me that, remember? Now, explain to me why you had this in your trash, Hayden.”

            “I have a script.”

            “Hahaha, as if that makes a goddamn difference, Bro.” Zane tapped the cap of the small orange bottle, tap, tap, tap. The taps boomed through his ears and down his neck.  His chest was going to break. “Who’s Dr. Montserrat Murphy?”

            “My doctor, obviously.”

            “Obviously. Yeah, yeah, obviously. But what are you seeing her for?”

            “I told you before, Zane: it’s none of your fucking business. Now get the hell out.” He was in a bad place—still is—but he didn’t want Zane’s help. Zane had done enough already, and Hayden could take care of himself.

            “Are you depressed? Just tell me!”

            Hayden felt the blood on his knuckles before his brain finally registered what he’d done. His brother placed a hand over his face in an attempt to keep his broken nose from bleeding all over his pristine white shirt, but it was no use—the damage had been done.

            “ _Motherfuck! Y-y_ ou, you asshole!”

            Hayden was breathing hard, struggling to gain footing in his whirling world. The drums beat, and beat, and beat, and his left hand started to feel sore.

            “I want you to leave. Now.”

            “Fucking asshole,” Zane said, pushing him hard against the chest. “I came here to fucking help you.” _I don’t want your help._ Another push, even less gentle, that made his head snap back against the wall. For a second, so small, miniscule, the drums stopped, only to come back crashing heavier and harder behind his eyes.

            “Get out, Zane.”

            Zane nodded, blood dribbling down his mouth and chin. “Fine, have it your way.” Using his bloody hand, Zane pulled out the Bentley keys and pushed them into Hayden’s palm. “I’m done borrowing your shitty car.”

            With that, Zane started to head for the door.

            “Take the girl with you,” Hayden said. She was staring at him with mild annoyance and fascination. He didn’t like it. “I don’t want her here either.”

            Zane turned around, bloody hand cupping his nose again. His eyes were brooding storm clouds now, siblings to ones Hayden saw earlier in the day. _FALSE GOD, FALS GOD, FALSE GOD!_

            “Nah, Brother. She stays, because I paid her to. I know it’s been a long time since you fucked a girl.” Without another word, Zane walked out of the apartment, and Hayden felt empty. He went to his bedroom to lie down, and the girl followed him.  

            “We gonna do this or what?” she asked, taking off her mint-green headphones. With hesitation, he nodded. He needed to feel something, anything, besides the pounding pain in his head that had since turned into a dull throb.

            The girl was pretty in the way that models that promote cheap bars are: blond, with light green eyes and full lips.  Mindy was her name, he remembered. He found her rather boring, yet he was caught between wanting to ask her to leave and wanting to have her stay so that he wouldn’t have to be alone.

            When they kissed, he found that she tasted like mint. The taste contrasted with her smell of cigarette smoke, and when she touched him everything hurt, even as it felt good.

           

            _How did I get here?_

 

_What is wrong with me?_

 

            “Hey, Mistah Undahwood?”

           

            She’s sitting with her back to him now, lighting a cigarette. The smell makes him nauseous, reminds him of his childhood in the worst ways. He wants to tell her to put it out, but instead he traces his fingers down the line of her spine. This, right here, this is close to what he wants. He doesn’t want to ruin it.

 

            “Mistah Undahwood?” she asks again.

            “Yes, Mindy?”

            “You know you talk to yaself, right?”

            “Yes, Mindy.”

            “Just checking. Ya brotha didn’t mention that.”

            The cigarette smoke wafts past his nose, brings him back down into a dark basement. _Don’t ruin this, too._

            “Anyway,” Minday says, pulling her shorts back on. “I ain’t no counselor, but I’ll leave my number on the kitchen counter.” She gives him a quick kiss on the temple. “Best’a luck with whatevah you goin’ through, Mistah Undahwood.”

            He doesn’t want her to go, he realizes. _Stay,_ he wants to tell her, but the words stick in his mouth. Because even though he doesn’t like her—not very much, not in that way—she’s _there_ : a person he can talk to who isn’t one of his brothers or his sister or even his psychiatrist. She doesn’t know a thing about him beyond what one can google, and he senses that there’s safety in her lack of knowledge about him. Being with her has the promise of intimacy without the threat of pain—of giving _her_ pain.

             But now she’s gone, leaving him with only Cerberus for comfort. The dog hops on the bed and curls up near the edge. “Your owner’s a mess, buddy,” Hayden says, petting the animal with his foot. Hayden blinks, feels wet drops trickle down his cheeks. _When the drums stop beating and the world stops burning, all that’s left is desolation._ “Your owner’s a real goddamn mess.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Domestic and child abuse in this chapter. Read with caution.

            Hayden takes unsteady steps in heavy darkness. The air is thick and stifling, and smells vaguely of cigarette smoke. A tiny, whispered voice calls out to him.

           “Brother?” the voice asks. “Brother, what are you doing?” It’s a child’s voice, his older sister’s voice. She calls him by the name the Old Man gave him, a name that he’s long since outgrown.

           “Looking for a way out,” he hears himself say. His voice is small too, high-pitched and so very, very young. He is a little boy again, and the darkness feels much more intimidating than it did before. Here the shadow is not his friend; here the shadow is an obstacle to overcome, almost an enemy that needs to be vanquished.

            “Sit down or he’ll hear you and get mad!”

            Hayden knows she’s right, that she’s always been right, but they can’t stay here anymore. His baby brother has been raised in darkness—hasn’t known anything else—and Hayden can’t let that go on any further. For his part, he doesn’t remember the last time he saw the sun. It could be days, but it’s probably been weeks (months? years?). Now the only light he ever gets to see is when the Old Man lets Mom come down to the basement to feed the baby. When she can, she also brings food for Sis and him, but the Old Man keeps her on a tight leash and meals are scarce.

           “He’ll be mad anyway. I’m getting us out.” It’s a dumb decision, he knows; he’s seen this play out before countless times, as if the past can ever be changed, even within dreams. Hindsight is always 20/20, though, and right now he’s just a child who wants to escape.

           Outside, Sis and the baby and him can find a new dad, a good one; a dad that won’t hit Mom or keep them locked in a basement. That’s his dream.

           It never works out that way.

           Hayden can hear shouting upstairs: a beast snarls obscenities, glass shatters, and beauty crumples to the ground in tears. Hayden tells himself that he’ll fight that beast if he has to; he’ll claw and scratch and bite and kill if that’s the only way to get Sis and his brother out of this place.  It’s a lie, but it’s a lie he repeats in order to survive, because sometimes Goliath just beats the shit out of David—and as David, he’s had more than his share of beatings.

           Hayden nearly trips when he finally reaches the staircase. Gingerly, he steps out onto the creaking stairs, wincing as even his small weight makes the old wooden structure groan. He moves to take a second step, but a loud roar, followed by a frightened scream, makes him freeze. Sis stays behind him, doing her best to comfort the baby.

          “Shh,” she coos, “I got you, little one. I got you.”

          Suddenly, the heavy, gargantuan metal door at the top of the stairs flies open, and in stream the orange lights of the old Victorian home; lights that silhouette the Old Man’s large frame in the doorway. His bulky hands are twisted around Mom’s forearm, holding her in place. And even though her face is covered in shadow, Hayden can tell that tears are streaming from her eyes.  The Old Man holds a half-empty whisky bottle in his other hand, takes a swig of the brown drink.

         “Wel-l-l-l, look-y here, Rhea. Whatchu gon’ do with that rock, boy, hmmm? You gon’ hit me with it, hmmm, you gon’ throw it at me?” _Rock?_ Hayden wonders. _I don’t have a rock._ But there’s definitely a rock in his left hand, heavy and jagged and not suited for much of anything except maybe bludgeoning a person to death. It’s perfect. The Old Man takes another large drink from his bottle, wipes his mouth. “Throw it, boy. Take your fuckin’ shot.”

          Hayden wants to, God he wants to; there’s nothing he’s desired more in his entire, short life. It’s a desperate, needy yearning to finally take a chance stop the pain, but his body just won’t move. Mom is struggling to keep a straight face but she’s still got tears gushing from her eyes. He sees fear there, too: fear for herself and fear for her children. She’s a broken bird who can’t protect her own. _Do something!_

         “Fuckin’ throw it, boy!” the Old Man screams. Hayden’s heart races, beats so hard he thinks it might burst out of his chest. He’s never been more afraid.

         “Fuckin’ pussy,” the Old Man mumbles, shattering the old whiskey bottle against the brick wall of the basement. “I knew you couldn’t fuckin’ throw it.” With an abrupt movement, the Old Man roughly pulls Mom towards himself and holds the jagged, broken side of the glass bottle inches away from her neck. Hayden’s ears start ringing.

         “Don’t hurt her!” he yells. His voice is so small it’s pathetic.

         “Don’t be afraid, baby,” Mom says, looking straight at him. Bravery. She’s being brave for him. The Old Man yanks her even closer; she won’t be able to be brave for much longer.

         “Don’t you fuckin’ talk to him, you whore. You fuckin’ talk to me. You fuckin’ look at me.” She’s crying and crying, and so are the baby and Sis and he _needs to do_ _something_ , so he does; he throws the rock with all the strength a five-year-old has. Turns out it’s actually quite a lot.

         The rock flies through the air like a bullet and hits its target right in the temple, surprising the Old Man enough to make him stumble and drop his bottle.

         “You little shit!” the Old Man screams, throwing Mom down the stairs like a ragdoll. She lands next to Hayden and he can hear the sickening sound of a bone breaking.

         “Mom?”

‘Don’t be afraid,’ she keeps saying, but her voice is far away and her lips aren’t moving. “Mom?”

          He doesn’t notice the heavy footsteps coming down the stairs, doesn’t feel anything when the Old Man pulls him up by the scruff of his shirt, doesn’t feel the heavy fist connect with his nose and eye. No—he only hears Mom’s voice pulling him back from the brink, pulling him back from descending completely into despair; so when he sees her eyes close in the darkness of the basement, the pit is all he knows.

          When Hayden finally wakes, he’s coated in sweat. He looks at his alarm; it’s 6:30 in the morning, and the dog has curled up next to him.

         “Hey, buddy,” he says, petting the animal’s floppy ears. His hands won’t stop shaking. “What say you and I pay an old bastard a visit?”

* * *

 

          Jessup Correctional Institution: a dehumanizing cage for the troublemakers of society. Young drug addicts and dealers, old timers who made dumb mistakes as kids, murderers, rapists, and domestic abusers—they’re all here, mixed together, and if you weren’t a hard man going into this place, you sure as hell come out as one. Hayden has had to visit clients here before many, many times, and all very much to his chagrin, but he’s never come here to visit the Old Man.

_What a bad fucking idea this was._ Hayden grits his teeth, shuts his coat against the rain. He’s not sure what he’s doing here. It’s not a good idea for a multitude of reasons—the _least_ of which is his current mental health state. Yet he’s here all the same, about to walk into the lion’s den. _What the fuck am I doing?_

          The sky erupts with lightning and Cerberus cowers with his tail between his legs.

         “It’s okay,” Hayden says, though whether its towards the dog or himself, he doesn’t know. He takes in a deep breath, shuts his eyes, nods. “Right, it’s okay. Let’s go in, buddy.”

         Of course, the guards don’t let him bring Cerberus to the visiting area, which is fine; the animal doesn’t need to be exposed to the bowels of this place. He just needs to be there when Hayden crawls back from its depths. So the dog stays behind while Hayden gets processed. It’s a very short time before he gets to the phone booth area (because he can’t visit the man in person, without a wall between them, not yet) and he has to steel himself before he sits in front of the glass. One breath, two, three—ready.

         There the Old Man sits, his longstanding terror, with graying hair at his temples and piercing blue eyes that remind Hayden of tundra ice, flashing his white teeth in a dark parody of a smile. He hasn’t changed much.

           Hayden sits in the booth, picks the phone up.

          “I see you’ve managed to grow a beard,” the Old Man rasps. “Fifteen fuckin’ years, but you grew one. Took you long enough.”

          “You look the same.” The man hasn’t aged at all, really; in fact, he doesn’t look that much older than Hayden. Considering their strong resemblance to each other, Hayden thinks that in this moment he could be looking in a mirror at himself instead of through a window at his father. The notion makes his stomach knot.

           The Old Man squints his steely blue eyes, cocks his head. “No ring either, hmmm?”

_Tch_. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

           “I don’t see how your visit is relevant, but here we are. How’s my old lady?”

           “Wonderful, without you. I’m not here to talk about my mother.”

           The Old Man’s vicious grin comes back. “Oh? Why are you here then, Aidoneous?”

           Hayden’s stomach knots again and his head starts to throb. _This was a mistake._

           “Your nose is bleeding, boy.” On the surface, the Old Man’s voice sounds genuinely concerned, but over the years Hayden has learned how to detect the subtle malice underneath. Warm blood trickles down from his nose and the only thing he has to wipe the mess away is his hand. A wave of nausea passes through him when he glances at his knuckles and sees red blood that shines like gold.

            A throaty chuckle on the other line pulls his awareness back. “Well, since you’re here, I might as well tell you the good news: the courts have allowed me to appeal my case. I might be out within the next year, so fuckin’ fun times await you and your siblings. ”

            Hayden lets the meaning of the Old Man’s words sink in. Rage and fear flow through him at the thought of seeing his horrid father walk the streets as a free man. No—that can’t ever happen. “You’re never leaving this place. Ever. I’ll make sure of that.”

           “O-o-o-oh, would you look at that. Think you’ve grown strong, boy, hmmm? Why are you here?”

           “I’m no boy.”

           “Less than a boy, you’re right; little beyond a squalling baby is more appropriate, but it takes too long to fuckin’ say. Fifteen years ago you thought you were a man too, sitting as a witness against your own father. Sheesh. Rhea should’ve swallowed you; instead I manage to squirt you and those other brats into her belly like a fuckin’ idiot. And now the boy who thinks he’s a man because he’s finally grown a beard is here, staring me down behind the protection of a glass wall. Where’s your little brother, hmmm? Where’s that blond little shit, why isn’t he here protecting you?“

           The Old Man’s words irritate and dig under Hayden’s skin. _This was a mistake,_ he thinks again _._ But it’s too late now; he has to see this through—whatever _this_ is. The phone cracks in his grip.

           “There it is,” the Old Man says, unfiltered glee in his voice, “There’s the anger. Can you feel it, the rage coursing through you? That’s power. Tell me, Aidoneous, what you plan to do here with that rage. Have you come to finally kill me, here in this prison, surrounded by guards?”

           The question makes him pause. “No,” he finally answers.

           “Yeah, I figured that would be too brash for you. You and I, we’re alike in many ways, kiddo. We’re cautious.”

           The drums have begun to beat, and blood trickles down his mouth again. The room is too hot; the pain is too much. Obsidian hands pull at the edges of his consciousness and he can’t hold onto the ledge with his fingertips alone. He has to leave.

           “I’m not your fucking son, and I’m not anything like you.”

           “Your mother would disagree.”

            And it’s annoying because the Old Man is right: Hayden _did_ come here to kill him, but his intention was not to literally take the man’s life. No, Hayden came to this wretched nest of misery to kill the _idea_ of his father; to show himself that he had nothing to fear from a frail, elderly man.

            Except the man is anything but frail or elderly. He has the same burly build like Zane; the same manic eyes that Hayden remembers from his childhood; the same snarling grin; the Old Man hasn’t changed at all, and Hayden feels like a powerless kid again.

            “Leaving already, I see. Just like you to be weak when things start to get interesting.” Heavy waters against the dam, and it finally breaks. The rage has nowhere else to go but out.

            Hayden slams the prison phone against the glass wall, sending a spider’s web of cracks through it. Distantly, he knows that the guards are rushing towards him, that he might even be arrested, but he doesn’t care. The haunting, the nightmares—they have to stop. The past will stop hurting if the fear goes away. It has to.

            Glass shatters, and the guards are running, running, running towards the two of them, but time has slowed. Shards slice through Hayden’s arm, and his nerves combust. A strong pulse beats under his thumb; he’s wrapped his hand around the Old Man’s neck. When Hayden speaks, face pressed the cracking window, his own voice sounds strange to his ears. Darker. Angrier.

            “Fuck you,” he says. “Waste of flesh, insult to roaches and other vermin. I fucking _hate_ you, and every day that you’re in here is another day that society isn’t poisoned. You will never leave this place.” His grip has grown tighter, but the Old Man doesn’t look scared, doesn’t look bothered in the least. _Bastard. Fucking bastard._ “I’ll kill you before you ever see court.”

             His head hurts, his arm hurts, everything fucking hurts, and the Old Man just keeps smiling with an amused snarl. _Bastard. Fucking bastard._

            “Sir! Sir, are you alright?”

             Blink once for awareness, twice for consciousness; if you need anything greater to bring you back, you might be more than just mostly dead.

             Hayden blinks twice, and the glass isn’t broken, but his nose is definitely still bleeding and he’s suddenly standing, albeit on shaky legs. _Another hallucination._

             “Sir?” It’s a guard.

             “I’m fine.” He can feel the Old Man’s gaze on him; burning through whatever defenses he has left. He has to leave.

_I’m losing my mind. I really am going nuts._ It’s a frightening thought, but that’s the only explanation for what he just experienced. “I was just leaving.”

              The Old Man’s rough laughter rumbles through the glass. “Go ahead and leave, boy! Run away like a coward and cry into your piles of money.” Hayden doesn’t need to be told twice.

              He’s leaving, he’s leaving, get the dog, he’s leaving, don’t forget the fucking dog, he’s leaving, walk through the metal detector again, he’s leaving, he’s done. _Run away and cry into your piles of money._

              The pain is still there and the laughter is still there and the drums are back in full force. Cerberus licks his hand.

              He needs to hit something. “Hey, dog. Let’s go to Mike’s. ”

              Maybe when he’s punching a bag he’ll start to feel like he has some control over his life.

 

              (But it might be too late; the dam is already broken.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey so I don't know what's up with the formatting on this site, but I still haven't managed to figure out how to keep my italics italicized, which is kind of a bummer because I use them for emphasis/direct character thoughts. If anyone could help me out with fixing this problem, I would really appreciate it. Thx!


	6. Chapter 6

 

              

            Okay, so maybe Angie _did_ lie. That had to be it, right? Because Mr. Underwood didn’t show up today, didn’t order his signature drink, didn’t brighten up the drudgery of the morning like Angie said he would. It sucked, and it still sucks, because the man refuses to get out her head; instead he’s buried himself there like a goddamn mental tick. Seph knows that his not showing up today undoubtedly had something to do with the shit show she watched on the news last night… Although at the same time, part of her hoped that she’d see him despite that fiasco. She worries the inside of her lip, thinks to herself that he probably has some legal thing he’s dealing with, like suing Saint Sebastian or something along those lines.The news said that there weren’t any charges pressed, but she figures that’s likely changed at this point. Oh well; she can’t keep stewing over a guy she doesn’t know, and her angst has gone on long enough. It’s time to focus on class.

           “You look pissed.” Oh yeah, Jess is here; class will have to wait.

           “It’s whatever. Did you need help with the sigma notation?”

           “Pffft, I know that it’s not “whatever,” girl. And you know I rock sigma notation. You’re pissed because of that rando I saw on your phone, aren’t you?”

           “No.” Jess rolls her eyes, and Seph doesn’t have the energy to argue. “Fine. I’m pissed over him, all right? I don’t even know the guy and I’m angry. Ugh.”

           Class is slow; a review of the multivariable chain rule. Seph’s seen it before, and at this point she’d much rather watch paint dry than have to sit through Dr. Wilson’s dull voice for another hour.

          “Look on the bright side,” Jess whispers, _whispers_ because she doesn’t want to risk another dock to her grade, “there’s always Frankie.”

          “Frankie is a fuckboy.”

          “Whoa, you really are upset…”

           Why is she so mad? What did she think was going to happen with Mr. Underwood? They’ve barely exchanged two words with each other and she’s acting like he’s personally insulted her. She chews on the inside of her lip again. _Get a fucking grip, girl._

          “ _Ladies!_ ” The irritated cry from Dr. Wilson ends the conversation. Forty minutes pass at a glacial pace until he finally assigns the night’s homework and Seph storms out the door, Jess following a half a step behind. In her hurry, she ends up ramming straight into a brick wall.

          “Damn, sexy girl, slow down.”

           Seph looks up. Oops, it’s not a brick wall; it’s Frankie and his huge chest. Frankie Mars, with his dyed blood-red hair and tribal armband tattoo and his stupid goatee. A brick wall would’ve been better.

          “Hey, Frankie,” Jess says, all breathy and flirtatious. She turns into a sensual wet noodle around the guy. Normally Seph wouldn’t care, but Frankie is a jerk. He smiles his crooked smile at Jess, but he keeps his eyes locked on Seph.

          “Where y’all math nerds headed in such a hurry?” he asks. This close, Seph can smell his cologne. It’s woody and smoky and reminds her of burning tires, so it’s probably Axe _._ She wants to gag.

          “Home,” Seph answers.

          “So soon? It’s barely five o’clock. Listen, it’s Fight Night at my gym tonight. You ladies interested in cheering me on?”

          “No—”

          “Yes!” Jess squeals. Meanwhile Frankie just keeps staring at Seph, and she resents his ability to make her feel small and want to hide in a mountain of clothing—or an underground bunker. _Does he ever blink? Freaking weirdo._

          “No,” Seph repeats, raising her voice to stamp out any possible confusion that she might’ve also agreed to watch Frankie beat up some poor kid. She feels Jess tug on her arm, sees her mouth, ‘What are you doing?’ Seph shakes her head, because she doesn’t need to see Frankie pummel a kid, doesn’t _want_ to see him pummel a kid. She refuses to watch that.

          “Haha, excuse us for a sec, Frankie,” Jess says, pulling Seph off to the side with her. “What the hell, Seph?”

          “Frankie is a fuckboy, Jess. An f-u-c-k-b-o-y. Like, if the word “fuckboy” were in the dictionary, and you looked it up, Frankie’s face would be right below the definition.  I don’t want to hang out with him. You can go if you want, but I’m not wasting any time hanging around the fool.”

          “Okay, okay, I know you don’t like him. I get it. The message is loud and clear, okay? But he likes you and I like him and I just want him to notice me. If we go together I’ll have a chance to talk to him…maybe. If the cards align, or the stars, or whatever—look, you know what I mean.”

          “Aren’t you asexual?”

          “…Okay yeah, but I’m heteromantic and I really, really like him. You don’t have to talk to him. C’mon, Seph. Please? Pretty please with, like, a gazillion cherries on top?” Oh no, here it comes: the puppy-dog face, the dangerous tool of the master manipulator, the look Seph can’t resist. She can try with all her might, but Jess has the expression down to a precise science. _Goddammit. What do you even see in this guy, Jess?_

         “Ugghhhhh, fiiiine. I’ll go with you. But you owe me, all right? And if we’re going to a boxing gym, I’m not just gonna stand around, either.”

         “Oh em gee, thank you, Seph! You’re the best!” Jess gives ridiculously tight hugs, and right now this is probably the tightest hug she’s _ever_ given, because Seph legitimately can’t breathe. _Maybe passing out will be a good thing. At least that way I won’t have to see her make googly eyes at Frankie._ When she finally manages to catch her breath after Jess’ epically long hug, Seph holds back a sigh. She knows that she’s being unfairly judgmental about her friend’s crush, but Frankie gives off creepster vibes and she just wants Jess to be safe. She opts to shake her head again. _Be a good friend and make sure that he doesn’t try anything with her._ Frankie may have his sights set on Seph for now, but she has the feeling that he’s the type of guy who will do whatever he can to get his rocks off, including hooking up with girls he doesn’t even like and leaving a trail of broken hearts in the process.

         “Hey, Frankie!” Jess calls, doing her best to sound petite and dainty and everything that she’s not, “we’re gonna go to your fight-thing. Lead the way!”

         “Both of you?” he asks, staring at Seph again.

         “Duh,” she answers, rolling her eyes in an effort to annoy him. In the end he doesn’t seem to care though; he just shrugs his meaty shoulders and says, “Cool. Let’s go. My truck’s this way.”

         It’s a dirty gym, incurably saturated with the pungent scents of sweat and blood. On top of that, the place is old, with punching bags that have seen better days, covered in layers upon layers of duct tape, and a ring that hasn’t been washed in years. In certain ways, it’s like Seph’s old ballet studio, and going inside reminds her of the countless leg lifts, pirouettes, and turn-outs she had to do for practice, and as numerous and annoying as they may have been, she misses them now. Seph knows that the funkiest and oldest places are the best; they’re kind of places where real fighters train—and real dancers.

        “Mike’s gonna set the chairs up around there. Y’all can wait here if you want or hit a bag or whatever, I’m gonna go get ready. Gimme a kiss on the cheek for good luck?” Frankie looks at her expectantly, with his ancient gym bag hanging over his shoulder. _No way in hell, dude._

       “Good luck,” she tells him. No kiss from her, although Jess gives him a peck on the cheek. Gross. Seph takes a step and hears a dog yelp. She looks down, sees a black lab lying on the floor and the inky tail that she accidentally stepped on. _No way_ , she thinks.

       “Dammit all, I told Hayden not to bring that damn dog in here.” _No freaking way._ Distantly, she can hear the solid noise of hard punches hitting a heavy bag.

       “Holy crap,” Jess says. “Wait a minute. Is that…is that the guy, Seph?”

       “Uhh.” It is, it is. It’s definitely the guy, swatting a heavy bag around like it’s a goddamn balloon in a blur of black hair and red gloves.

       “Eyyup, Hayden hits hard. But you should see his younger brothers— champions, the lot of ‘em. He’s quick though, very fast. Anyway, enough about him…asshole leaves his dog at the front desk and expects me to take care of it…The name’s Mike and this is my gym. What can I do for you two lovely ladies? You girls here for Fight Night?”

       “We most certainly are,” Jess says, shooting Seph a look that asks, ‘What the fuck are you not telling me?’ Seph shrugs; it’s not like she lied to Jess. This is all news to her too. It’s all freakishly kismet and weird as hell, but she’s just going to roll with things as they come.

       “Jess is here to watch the fights. I just want to try this place out, y’know, maybe get some mitt work in.”

       “Well, first couple practices are on the house. Although I’m not sure how much mitt work you’re gonna be able to get in, missy, because it should be a packed house tonight. But…aw hell, go ahead and warm up with some jump rope. I unfortunately won’t be able to work with ya, but I’ll have Hayden give ya some combos. He owes me that much for bringing that dog in here anyway. And he’s good. What’s your name?” A part of Seph feels excited at the thought of finally getting some one-on-one time with her recent crush/obsession, but another part of her wants to hightail it out of this stinking gym and never see Mr. Underwood again. If she’s honest with herself, she’s in hardcore fangirl mode right now, and it’s more than a little embarrassing. She never gave this man permission to invade her thoughts, and now it seems that everywhere she turns, he’s there in some way. _The universe is screwing with me_ , she thinks.

        “I’m Seph, and this is my friend Jess. _She’s_ here to watch Frankie Mars fight.”

        “Oooh, Frankie, eh? Right on, right on. Nice to meet both of you. Not a lot of girls come in here, as you can imagine, hahaha. Ahem. Right. Okay, go ahead and hit the ropes, mija. Hayden! Goddammit. HAYDEN!”

         The sound of bag work stops, and Seph hears the soft voice again. She won’t turn to look at him, she’s too nervous, but she can feel _him_ looking at her, can almost see the wondering expression on his face.

         “…What’s up, Mike?”

         Warm hands press on her shoulders.  She likes Mike; he reminds her of her old ballet teacher. He keeps her from totally shrinking in on herself. “Take care of this one with some mitt work after she’s done jumping rope. You’re here, you might as well make yourself useful.”

         “…Sounds good,” Underwood says.

          “Right,” Mike repeats, turning towards Jess. “I still need to set up some chairs. Would you mind helping me out with that, mija?”

          “Not at all.” That’s a first; Jess hates helping out with anything unless it’s an art project. Her crush on Frankie runs deeper than Seph originally thought.

           Sooner than Seph can blink, Jess and Mike are off somewhere gathering chairs and Underwood is walking towards her, clad in only some gym shorts and an undershirt. _Don’t stare at his arms, don’t stare at his arms, don’t stare at his arms._ She does her best to keep a friendly smile on her face, and not look like a total creep checking him out but _damn_ —the guy is cut. _What have I gotten myself into?_

          He stops when they’re about two feet apart from each other.

         “…Er,” he mumbles, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck, “…Hey. You…you work at Starbucks, right?”

         “Uhm. Yeah, yeah I do. You’re the guy who ordered a dark roast a couple days ago.”

          Underwood wrinkles his brow, scratches his temple. “…Yes, that was me. Good to see you again.”

         “You too,” Seph replies.  Did she say that too fast? Is she being weird? Everything about this conversation feels awkward and uncomfortable and tense and she doesn’t know why.

          He clears his throat, looks down at his feet and then back up at her. “Er…um. Hit the ropes for a few minutes like Coach said and we’ll work on some combos.”

          Seph finally does that, because it doesn’t seem like she’s going to get much more conversation out of the guy. She tries to stay as light on her toes as possible, but the constant jumping starts to make her hip ache regardless. Mercifully, Underwood tells her she’s done enough after about 10 minutes.

          “You ever boxed before?” he asks her, bringing over hand wraps.

          “A little bit,” she answers. “I know the basic punches and combinations.”

          “Need me to wrap your hands?”

          At first Seph shakes her head, ‘no,’ but then she notices that these particular hand wraps don’t have Velcro or thumb loops. “Actually, yeah. I don’t know how to wrap with these.”

          He nods, says, “Right hand out, spread your fingers. Let me know if it’s too loose or tight around your wrist.” She watches as his light brown hands move over her black ones. Pale scars dot the skin of his knuckles and thumb. Again, she wonders, _Who are you?_ The sound of his soft voice floats into her ears again.

         “Is that good?” he asks.

         She opens and closes her fist. “Yup.”

         “Left hand.” And it’s the same process, only this time she occasionally looks up at him, sees his brow knitted in concentration. Eventually he notices her gaze, and a corner of his lips turn up while her body turns into the blazing surface of the sun. “Done.”

         She opens and closes her hand. He did a good job.

         “Thankies,” she says, trying hard not to come across as an overly infatuated schoolgirl and utterly failing.

         He scrunches his slightly crooked nose. “ _Thankies?_ ”

        “Shut up.” She lightly slaps his arm with a glove.

        “Ouch. First you tell me ‘thankies’ and then you tell me to shut up. I must say I’m very confused.”

        “I will hit you again.”

        “No, no, enough of that. You’re going to hit the mitts, not me. Get in your stance. Good. Don’t lean forward so much. That’s better. Okay. One.”

        Seph throws the jab, and Underwood nods his head while she does her best to ignore the shooting pain that comes from her hip. It’s stupid, but she wants to impress him.

         “Two,” he calls, holding the target out. She throws everything that she has behind the cross, and when he pulls back his hand, he shakes it as if he’s been hurt. “That was great. You’ve got lots of power.” She knows that he’s just being nice, but the praise feels good—so good that she barely notices the next jolt of pain her hip throws down her spine. _Slow it down, don’t reinjure yourself over this._

         “Thankies,” she says again, giving him a sly wink. It appears on his face almost as if she’s watching him in slow motion, but he rewards with a smile for her effort. He’s got a nice smile, too, but Seph has the sad impression that he doesn’t show it off very often; it certainly doesn’t last long on his face.

          He circles her, makes her move from right to left to forward and back, occasionally chiding her with, “Don’t cross your feet.”

          Soon enough they fall into an easy rhythm of punches and footwork, and Seph feels like she’s dancing again.

         “You’re…graceful. One, two, three, roll, double jab. Good. One, two. Double jab.”

         “Thanks,” Seph says between breaths, “I used to do ballet.”

         “I can tell.”

         “Really?” Double jab, two, three, roll, one, two.

         “What’s your name again?” He circles her, forces her to pivot and move to the right.

         “Seph.”

         “Well, Seph,” jab, double cross, roll, cross, three, cross, “looks like you’re a natural. Really.”

          Seph’s body is the surface of the sun again, this time complete with solar flares. “…Thanks. Looks like you’re one too, Mr. Underwood.” That makes him pause, turn his head to the side like she’s a puzzle he needs to figure out.

          “I feel like I—,” he begins, but Frankie interrupts him.

          “Ayyyy yo, Underwood is here? Yo, Coach, why didn’t you tell me?” Frankie’s aroma of burning tires drifts past her nose and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something very rude to him in front of Underwood.

          “No, Frankie,” Mike rasps.

          “No what?”

          “No, you’re not fighting Underwood.”

           They’re both over here now, Frankie and Mike, and the dancing with Underwood has stopped completely. Oh well; the mitt work was fun while it lasted.

           “C’mon, Coach, I just wanna see if the champ’s still got it! It’s not like I’ll be fighting one of his brothers.”

           “Frankie!”

           “What, Coach?” he asks, clasping a wrapped hand on Underwood’s shoulder, which Underwood swiftly shrugs off.  “Don’t touch me, kid. Ever.”

           “Whoa, bro, I didn’t mean no dispresp—”

           “Oh my God, don’t be an idiot, Frankie, for fuck’s sake. Hayden hasn’t weighed in. He hasn’t been practicing for this.”

           “For real, Coach, for real?” Frankie motions widely with his hands, “You keep saying I need to spar a southpaw to get ready for my next fight with Valdez, and we all know that Underwood’s probably the best southpaw in the DMV, pound-for-fucking-pound. How much do you weigh, Underwood?”

           “165.” The answer is immediate. _Don’t mind me_ , Seph wants to say. _I’m just standing here like a lamp._

           “Cool, I’m 167. C’mon, Coach, it’s destiny. Felix bailed on us and I need to fight tonight, and your old champ comes in to save the fucking day.”

           “Language, Frankie.” Mike crosses his arms, looks at Underwood. “I dunno.…What do you think, Hayden? It’s just an exhibition match.”

            Underwood squints, scratches his short beard. For a long time, no one says a word, and then, “Yeah sure, why the hell not?”

 _Okay, change of plans_ , Seph thinks. _I definitely have to stick around and watch this_.


	7. Chapter 7

          Zane would pull a stunt like this; hell, Peter would, too. It’s reckless, which means that it’s also dangerous—and Hayden’s long past that stage of life where it’s acceptable for him to get away with stupid behavior. Thing is, he’s also past the stage of really caring.

          There have been four bouts already: two bantamweight fights, one lightweight fight, and a welterweight fight, and Hayden has to sit through a couple more bouts before it’s his turn. Until then, he’s got to deal with the sudden pre-fight jitters he’s never had to wrangle with before. He also has to not get caught looking at the girl.

_The_ girl—Seph, that’s her name. He doesn’t want her to catch him. He’s not just watching _her_ , of course; he’s watching the fights too, watching the crowd around him, watching the punk kid who challenged him to this bullshit exhibition fight in the first place. None of that matters, though, because his gaze always returns to Seph. She’s sitting in the front row of seats with her friend, laughing and cheering and— _Wow, she’s really beautiful._

          “…Hey, are you listening to me?”

           Hayden blinks. Not a single word of what Mike said in the past five minutes made into his head. “What were you saying?”

          “Oh, just that wrapping your hands has made my arthritis flare up— _no!_ You big doof, what in the world do you think I’ve been talking about for the past few minutes, huh? Strategy, Hayden! Your strategy for this fight. Dios mío, what is with you, son? I’ve never seen you this distracted. ”

            Hayden flexes his fist. “What’s there to strategize about? The kid has seven fights under his belt, two of which are exhibition bouts. I have significantly more experience; I’m going to outbox him.”

           “Yeah, you have him on experience—other hand—but he’s got you on reach and age.”

           “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            Mike sighs, places the gauze pad on Hayden’s knuckles.

            “It means he’s a kid in college who’s been training for this fight and you are neither one of those things. You have to be smart about this.”

            Hayden snorts. “Christ. I’m not as old as you Mike, relax.”

            “Here’s the deal, you’re a great boxer, always have been. You, your brothers, and, you know who… _s-s_ -sorry about that. Right, won’t bring _him_ up again… Anyway, I don’t need you goin’ in there and brutalizing this kid, all right? He’s a jackass, but he’s something special, too, and he doesn’t need to get hurt before his next big bout. And…this should go without saying, but you need to protect yourself in there. I know you like to do that fancy footwork, bobbing and weaving and shit like that, but this kid _will_ clock you if you get too cocky. I don’t want none of that leaving-your- head-exposed shit you do to piss people off. I’m not putting you in there with a punk, Hayden. Well, he _is_ a punk. He’s a little jackass, like I said. But the kid’s a slugger, and he can fight. I need you to go in there, control the ring at all times, and show him what it’s like to tangle with a skilled southpaw.”

            “Anything else, Colonel Cabrera?”

            “Very funny, but since you asked, I… _do_ have one more thing.”

            Seph and her friend have spotted him. They wave enthusiastically. They’re having fun, and the strange thing is, he is too. Even surrounded by all this noise and all these people, he’s managing to mildly enjoy himself. _Maybe the meds are finally working…_

            “Go ahead and ask me, Mike.” He should’ve never said that.

            “The knuckles on your left hand are bruised.”

            “They are indeed, yes.”

            “…By your tone, I’m going to assume that you’re not going to tell me how you bruised them, are you?”

             The drums are starting to beat again, threatening to crack whatever illusion of enjoyment he’s been experiencing for the past few hours. If he’s not careful, he’ll fall down the chasm in front of all these people—in front of Seph. He can’t allow that.

            “You would be correct in that assumption.”

            “Son,” Mike’s fingers grab onto his forearm, form a tangible anchor that keeps him from drifting.

            “Let go of me, Mike.”

            “If something’s going on with you, I need to know about it. Look, I didn’t want to say anything, but I saw you on the news last night…”

            Exhale, and the smell of roses disappears. He should tell Mike; he should be honest with him. It would be irresponsible not to, almost self-destructive.

            He’s not going to tell him.

            “This is glorified sparring practice, Mike. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Now, would you let me go?”

            The anchor releases him and he’s free to drift once more. His eyes wander back to Seph and her friend. Inside, his feelings storm and revolt against each other: he wants to fight, he wants to talk to her, he wants beat his father in the ring, he wants to know what her full lips taste like, he wants to sleep, he wants to find an escape from loneliness. Each desire fights for dominance, pulls him in a different direction.

             Two more welterweight fights go by, unskilled and nigh unwatchable, and now it’s finally his turn. Headgear on, mouth guard in, and he’s ready.

 

* * *

 

            Seph watches the two men as they step into the ring, noticing that Underwood goes to each side and bows to the judges, and that Frankie follows suit.

           “Who are you rooting for?” Jess asks. She knows the answer, but Seph is willing to play along. Hayden “The Unseen” Underwood takes the red corner and Frankie “War Boy” Mars takes the blue. The bell rings, and the fight begins.

            “I’m neutral.”

* * *

 

            Mars steps out from his corner with his chin immediately tucked into his shoulder. _So he wants to fight from the shell and counterpunch? Fine._

            The adrenaline is pumping and the drums have slowed. Hayden circles and throws a jab that his opponent intercepts with a jab of his own. There’s pressure on his leading foot; Mars has stepped on him, caught him, and throws a cross and a hook, both of which Hayden just barely manages to block. The blows are heavy and remind him of when he used to spar Zane and Peter. _Kid knows what he’s doing…_

            Two quick jabs to the face surprise the kid and Hayden frees himself to move again, no worse for wear. He steps in with another set of double jabs, rolls underneath a left cross, and hits the kid’s chin with a solid uppercut that sends him reeling. The ref pauses the fight, gives his opponent a standing eight count.

* * *

 

            “Your rando is…good.”

            “Yeah,” Seph agrees. “He really is.” Frankie manages to get out of his daze and the fight continues. He tucks his chin again, cautiously matching Underwood’s movements around the ring. Suddenly, Frankie steps in with a quick jab, followed by an overhand hook that grazes Underwood’s head. Frankie is fast—a lot faster than Seph thought he would be—but Underwood is faster. His movements are precise but fluid, and when he slips and rolls, he teleports. At first, Seph thought that his nickname was a little lame, but the guy really is “unseen.”

             Her phone vibrates just as Underwood comes back from the roll and the two men clinch. It’s a text from Mamma.

 

**Mamma (8:00pm)**

            bby girl, where r u? thought you were coming home early 2day.

 

            “Shit,” Seph says.

            “What?”

            “Nothing, I just got a text from my mom, hang on.”

             The crowd is getting so loud that Seph can’t hear herself think. She’s texting her mom and missing the fight. What the hell is going on?

             “Holy crap, Seph, you need to see this! Seriously!”

             “Hang on, Jess, I need to text my mom—”

             “Seph you need to look _now!_ ”

              “ _What?!_ ” Text sent, Seph looks up, and finally gets to see what all the commotion is about. The ref is standing between the two fighters, and both corners are rushing to pull the men apart from each other.

              “The hell just happened?”

              “Girl, I don’t know. It looked like Frankie said something when they were doing that hugging-move, I don’t know what it’s called… and you know how he is…and your rando just…lost it. Freaking _lost it_. Like, he pushed Frankie to the ground and was about to start wailing on him before the ref got there. It was… _scary_.”

               Frankie’s already seated in his corner with a shit-eating grin on his face; meanwhile, three guys from the other corner have to force Underwood to calm down and sit.

              “I wonder what Frankie said to him…”

              “Seph, you didn’t see it, but I don’t think _any_ trash talk could justify that…”

               Seph nods. Jess is probably right. Still, something scratches her mind; something scratches at the part where she holds her cynicism, and Frankie’s shit-eating grin hasn’t left yet. Seph crosses her arms. _What did you say to Underwood?_

* * *

 

               It’s happening again. Black smoke fills the room, and Hayden can smell the rotting eggs of sulfur. His opponent sits across from him on a throne made of human bones; glowing red with strength and pride, armored in a bronze muscled breastplate and brandishing two bronze war hammers, one in each fist. _It’s not real_ , Hayden tells himself. _It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…_

              “Not real? You stand in my Hall of War. Of course it’s real.”

_Don’t talk to your delusion._ _It’s not real._

              “You need to wake up,” War says. Hayden knows that’s his name, or at least one of his names. “My drums beat, do you not hear them? Glorious battles lie in wait, just as we all do.”

              “Lie in wait for what?” Asking that question sends a panic rushing through Hayden’s body. Has he finally lost his last grip on reality? Did he ever have one to begin with?

              “We wait,” War answers, leaning forward on his throne of human bones, “to be set free.”

              “Hayden! HAYDEN!” Fingers snap in front of his eyes and the smoke clears. Warm liquid drips from his nose. That’s funny; Hayden doesn’t recall getting hit.

              “Coach?”

              “Just what the _fuck_ has gotten into you, son?”

              “…I….I don’t—”

              “Listen, I don’t know what Frankie said to you—and quite frankly, I don’t give a damn…”

_Said? What did he say?_ Hayden tries to remember, reaches for the memory of the thing that just happened and—

               It’s caught.

               They were in the clinch, and the kid had managed to get a good grip on him.

               “I saw you eying my girl,” he said, his words coming out clear as day despite his mouth guard. “Don’t think I didn’t catch that. You can’t fuckin’ have her, old man. Tonight I’m gonna fuck her— _me_. _I’m_ gonna fuck her, whether she wants me to or not. Just think: after this fight, grandpa, you’re gonna have a loss on your perfect record, and she’s gonna be chokin’ on _my_ dick, not yours.”

                After that it was a blur, but the recollection of the kid’s disgusting words serve to make Hayden’s blood boil once more.

                “HAYDEN!”

                “I’m good to fight, Coach.”

                “I know that you’re good to fight. What I don’t want is you going in there and trying to kill the kid. You cooled off now?”

                Hayden nods just to get Mike off his case, because he’s finished with playing around; he aims to teach Mike’s protégé a lesson.

                 “I’m good to fight,” Hayden repeats. “I’m cooled off now, I swear.” Nothing could be further from the truth.

* * *

 

                The bell rings and a new round starts. Seph can feel the change in the air: Underwood has picked up his pace, and she can tell that he’s out for blood. He comes in with a flurry of straight punches and pivots out, leaving Frankie still throwing wild shots into the air. Seph gasps. _Underwood’s been toying with Frankie the whole time!_

                 Frankie tries to come in again with a right overhand hook and a hook to the body, but Underwood’s gone light-years away before either strike even threatens to reach him.

                 As soon as Seph starts to think—worry, even—that the rest of the fight is just going to be Underwood making a fool of Frankie, it ends.

                 Frankie throws out a straight right hand, which Underwood easily slips. With his feet planted and an explosive push from his legs, Underwood drives a defensive uppercut straight into Frankie’s exposed torso, in the exact spot where his liver should be. The punch is fast and powerful, and Frankie immediately falls down onto his knees, face plants into the mat, and curls into the fetal position. For a moment, the crowd stays silent, until—

                 “Frankie!” Jess shouts, and the crowd erupts with cheers. Frankie’s corner, along with the ringside doctor, manage to get to get him up on his feet again, but Seph can tell that he’s standing on wobbly legs.

                 “And the winner, by technical knockout, and still the undefeated middleweight champion… _Hayden “The Unseen” Underwood!_ ” The ref pulls Underwood’s hand into air, and the crowd goes nuts. Somehow, even in all the chaos, he locks eyes with her, his thick hair a tangled mess of sweat, and he winks—all of which makes her skin burn in an embarrassing blush for the third time in one day. The nerve of that man!

* * *

 

                   The smell of sulfur returns, and War stands in place of Frankie. Hayden can’t see Seph anymore, and an angry, cold fear has replaced the warmth he felt in his chest when he saw her beaming at him. _Why is this happening to me?_ A large, simmering hole burns in the side of War’s breastplate.

                  “Because you refuse to wake,” War answers, collapsing to the ashen earth.

                   Shouts ring past Hayden’s ears and when he blinks, he’s suddenly back in the real world, with voices coming from all directions.

                  “Frankie! Oh my God!”

                  “Somebody call an ambulance!”

                   The kid, Frankie, he’s on the floor, holding his gut and floundering around like a fish. His face has turned beet-red and he’s got his eyes scrunched up.

                   “I wanna go to the hospital, someone take me to the hospital, it hurts, it hurts, _it fucking hurts!_ ” The poor kid is bawling. _What have I done?_

                   A strong hand squeezes his shoulder.

                   “We’re going to talk about this later,” Mike rasps.

                    When Hayden tries to look for Seph again in the worried crowd, he can only find her friend…and she stares at him with wide, scared eyes. Turning his head to look back at Frankie as he writhes in pain, Hayden wonders once more, _What have I done?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: References to drug use

 

            When Seph learned about what had happened to Frankie, she felt scared. Sure, Frankie gets on her nerves—he’s a sexist dudebro fuckboy—but hearing that he had to go to the hospital made her queasy. She wanted to congratulate Underwood after the fight, just wanted to talk to him, really, when she received frantic text from Mamma telling her to ‘PICK UP YOUR PHONE NOW,’ followed by a heated phone call in the gym restroom. By the time Seph hung up, the only people left in the gym were herself, Jess, and Mike. Underwood had apparently outdone himself with the liver punch he executed on Frankie—at least according to Mike. And from that, a dark realization dawned on Seph: Underwood controlled the fight the whole time, and his defined blow on the right side of Frankie’s torso was completely unnecessary to win. Hayden “The Unseen” Underwood wanted to hurt Frankie Mars, badly, and he did. None of that sat well with her, and in the moments when her mind wanders towards the subject, her stomach twists into knots.

            After the upheaval at the gym finally settled, her and Jess split fare on an Uber back to campus and Seph took the metro home. Arriving at her apartment didn’t bring the usual strange mixture of relief and sadness; instead, it conjured up a mixture of fear and resentment. Seph got home an hour later than the time she had promised Mamma she’d be back, and Mamma was not having any of it.

           “Baby girl,” Mamma said, massaging her temples, “when you say you gonna be home at a specific time, I expect you to be home by then. No later.”

            It was the exact same argument Seph had with her mother while she was at the gym. The same argument they’ve been having since she turned 18, and even before that. ‘The world is evil,’ her Mamma always says, ‘and you need to protect yourself.’ Seph has understood this since she was a small child, and she knows that she is more than capable of protecting herself now, yet Mamma still treats her as if she’s a baby.

            With everything that had happened during the day—the gym, Underwood, Frankie, even Jess—Seph had long since run out of her patience.

           “Mamma.” She forced her voice to come out hard and edged. It was her sword, and her words would cut deep. “I am not a child anymore. Can’t you see that?” She paused, gauging the stunned look on her mother’s face. Fear’s cold hands gripped her: what was she thinking? She didn’t want to hurt her mother, the person who she loves most in this world. From her oldest memories, it has only ever been the two of them: mother and daughter against the dark realities of the world.

            Even so, the sharp words sitting right at the tip of Seph’s tongue had the power to maim and mutilate not only her mother, but also their entire relationship as mother and daughter. With that knowledge, fear’s bitter clasp tightened. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and when she opened her eyes again, it was with a newfound resolve. _I have to do this,_ Seph thought. This would be her one and only chance to express to her mother her true feelings; if she backed down now, she would always be under her mother’s thumb. She pressed on: “I’m an adult, Mamma, a full-grown woman with adult responsibilities. And I know what you’re gonna say: I have a long way to go. I’m only legally an adult because of some arbitrary number. But I already know that, all right? I know that my cooking could use some work, and that I don’t have my own place yet, but I’m working on those things.

           “I’m doing my best for myself but I’m also doing my best for you, and I wish you would see that when I come home late, it’s not some diss or ‘screw you’ or whatever you think it is. I’m _busy_ , Mamma. I’m going to school; I’m working; I’m trying to maintain relationships with people—please! _Please_ understand! I love you, Mamma. No, don’t interrupt. Mamma, please, just let me finish. Thank you. I love you, I love you, but I can’t be your little kid anymore.

           “Every time I’m late, you think I’m out doing drugs or getting wasted or, heaven forbid, having sex with random strangers. I’m not doing any of those things, Mamma! And even if I were, those would be my choices! You—you can’t control me anymore, Ma, so stop trying to. You’ve got my wings tied, Ma, and I just wanna fly. You gotta let me fly. I know I’m your baby…and I know that you love me, and I love you too, but you need to treat me like the adult I am.”

            Seph stopped, nearly breathless, and drained of all energy, as her mother stared at her for the longest time in disbelief. When Mamma finally decided to speak, whatever word she had intended to say came out as a strained weep, and both women cracked. _This is it,_ Seph thought. _I broke my mom_. After all the hardship they endured together, and all the love they had for each other, Seph’s need to be free is what would destroy her mother. Guilt flooded her senses. She needed to do damage control, so she wrapped her arms around the most beautiful, courageous person she’s ever known, and she held on tight.

            It was a long night, and Seph isn’t sure how long they cried, or who cried more. She only knows that her mother—her amazing, resilient, brave mother—is fragile right now, and so she needs to be gentle with her, no matter how much she wants to be free— _needs_ to be free. Surrounded by the smell of roasting coffee, and listening to the gentle ebb and flow of Angie’s singsong voice, Seph can almost lose herself in the pattern of her hollow job. Almost, because, constantly spinning and firing on all cylinders, her mind refuses to let go of things, and all she can think about is the pain she’s caused her mother.

           And behind that, Underwood, the nefarious invader, scratches and digs for purchase in her thoughts.

           When he arrives at the coffee shop, new book in hand and a quiet dog padding behind him, he’s dressed like he at least gives damn.

          “Seph.” Last night, her voice was a sword; today, his is a spear. She can’t ignore him. “Are you free after work today? I feel like we should talk.”

           Seph only has one class after her shift, and it’s at 4:00. She nods, silently agreeing, silently consenting to have another interaction with this man, this stranger, because he’s right: they need to talk. She needs to be thinking about her mother right now, and maybe, just maybe, talking to him will ease the tight hold he has over her focus.

           “My shift ends in an hour.”

            Underwood nods. “There’s a fish and chips place nearby. We can have lunch; it’ll be on me.”

            Seph knows the place he’s talking about. It’s called The Hungry Shark, and she has to pass by it every time she goes to work. It’s a popular lunch spot; she feels comfortable with the idea of going there. _Let’s see who you are, Mr. Underwood…_

* * *

 

            Temptation that night was strong; so strong, in fact, that Hayden could see the syringe dancing before his eyes, backlit by strobe lights. Ten years of sobriety, down the drain, all because of the guilt he had from sending a kid to the hospital. Guilt and loneliness and a desire to escape suffering would be his end. It wouldn’t be hard to find a dealer, get up to his old ways again…

            He stared at his phone for a long time, thumbing through his extensive list of contacts until he found her. Had he really stooped so low that he was deciding between sleeping with a prostitute again and relapsing on heroin?

            “ _Fuck._ ” Hayden ran his hands through his hair. “Pull yourself together already.” A furry forehead nuzzled his cheek, and Hayden soon found himself with a 60-pound animal curled in his lap.

            “Thanks, buddy, I love you too.”

             A vibration on the sofa broke the short reprieve from his dark thoughts. It was a call from his sister. He considered ignoring it, but he knew that doing so would only have one outcome: he would have heroin-fueled sex with Mindy Greene. It’d be mindless, desperate sex, and probably awful for both parties. From there, he’d spiral into a tempest of self-hatred and destruction that would inevitably end in death. Isolated and alone, that was the only future he could see from within the confines of his apartment. There would be no coming back from this—no chance at redemption. The temptation was too strong, and he was too weak, and if he did not heed the call of this distraction, it would be over.

             “…Hello?”

             “Hayden! You picked up! You had me worried there for a while…”

              What could he say to that? He hadn’t spoken to his sister in months. He didn’t even know how to talk to her anymore.

              “Hayden? You there?”

              “Uhhh, yeah—sorry. How’ve you been, Sis? Still working at that family counseling center in Maryland?”

              “I’ve been doing great! I’m in Annandale now, but I’m still working for the same company. Glad to be out of Baltimore, though. I really should’ve never left home, to be honest... Anyway, that’s not why I called. I’m heading back into D.C. this weekend for some training and I was wondering if we could get together, maybe catch up. There are some things we need to discuss…some things about Mom. Also, are you okay? Zane and Peter told me that you haven’t been feeling well.”

              Here was an arm to hold him, if he could only reach out and grab the hand. Hayden took a deep a deep breath, clenched his sore fist. He refused to throw everything away tonight.

             “Sure, Sis, that sounds great. When can I expect to see you?” He ignored the question of how he’s been feeling; she’d find out soon enough.

             “Wonderful! I’ll be in on Friday. I heard that the city opened up a new salsa dancing nightclub…”

             “Hestia, you know that I hate those places—”

             “What?”

             “What do you mean, ‘what’? I can’t deal with nightclubs, Sis…”

             “No, not that—you just called me Hestia.”

             “What? No I didn’t.”

             “Yes you did! Hayden…what’s going on? Do you—do you know my name?”

             “Don’t be ridiculous, Hes”—he stopped before he could dig himself further into the hole. He couldn’t remember her name! No, that wasn’t right; he couldn’t remember her name _correctly_. He definitely remembered _a_ name, though: every time he pictured her brown hair and her kind, gray eyes, his mind shouted _HESTIA_.

              Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, “Look, I don’t have time for this right now, Sis. I’ll see you on Friday.”

             “…All right…but we _are_ going to that salsa dance club, so I would bring a date if I were you.”

             “Hestia—”Shit, he did it again.

             “I’ll see you Friday. Love you, little brother.”

             “…Love you, too.” _Hestia._

              The line clicked, and that was the extent of their conversation. All in all, it wasn’t much, but it _did_ manage to push him off the tracks of an incoming freight train. Hestia— _shit, again_ —has a way of calming him down. Maybe it’s the sound of her voice, or the fact that as children they had to be the ones to take care of each other; either way, her call, and his answering of it, averted a crisis.

              “Mr. Underwood?”

               Hayden blinks, remembers whom he’s speaking to. She’s not beaming at him anymore; instead, she’s eying him with suspicion.

              “Mr. Underwood, the waitress is here,” she says.

              “Call me Hayden, please.”

              “…Hayden, the waitress is here.”

              He orders a Bruce Burger and an Arnold Palmer to drink, while Seph orders the Orca Boat fish and chips platter with some lemonade.

             “So,” Seph takes a small sip of her drink, “you said we should talk. Let’s talk.” She eyes the bruised knuckles on his left hand.

              He purses his lips. “Well, about your friend, Frankie, I—”

             “Frankie isn’t my friend.”

             “…Regardless, I just wanted to apologize.”

             “Ha! You should be apologizing to _him_ , Mr. Underwood— _Mr. Hayden_ —not to _me_.” It takes a special kind of person to make Seph feel sorry for Frankie Mars. That special kind of person is Hayden Underwood.

             “I did apologize to him, Seph. I wanted to apologize to your other friend as well, because she seemed pretty upset by the whole thing, but I couldn’t find her in all the chaos after the fight. I’m going to pay for his ER visit, too.”

              Seph takes another sip from her glass. Underwood seems earnest enough. Still... “Why would you do that?”

              Underwood shrugs, flexing the fingers of his left fist. “It’s the least I could do after my punch sent him there.”

              Seph squints at him, incredulous. “Why’d you even take that shot in the first place, though? He only ever got close to you in the first round, and _that_ was when you were taking it easy on him. I know he said something to you, but boxers trash talk all the time. I like you, Mr. Underwood, or at least I thought I did, but now you’re coming across as a psycho.”

              “You like me? I’m touched.”

              “I _will_ throw this drink in your face.”

              The sound of his laugh melts Seph’s heart into a gooey, warm mess. “And I’m the psycho.”

              “ _Hayden._ ”

              “Look,” he says, suddenly very serious. “I don’t know what your relationship with that Frankie kid is, and you’ve got no reason to believe anything I’m about to tell you, but he’s bad news.” _He’s like my father_ , Hayden almost says, but she doesn’t need to know that. Seph nods slowly, weighing each of his words. He continues. “This probably isn’t my place to say, but I feel like you should know. When we were in the clinch, he said some horrible things about you. Don’t ask me to repeat what he said, because I won’t. Just know that his remarks were rather…well, predatory. Sick. You can take what I tell you and throw it out, if you want, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did, but I feel better now that you know.”

               Frankie said gross things about her? Seph believes it. She’s heard him say things about her ass when she’s had the misfortune to walk past him. His words are always whispered jokes to his dudebro friends, but she can hear them. It’s not like he’s careful.

              “So yes, boxers talk trash. But he wasn’t talking trash; he was being a creep. I suppose I didn’t have to punch him in the liver, but I couldn’t stand being in the ring with him anymore, so I chose to end the fight early. If that makes me a ‘psycho,’ then I guess I can’t argue.”

               He crosses his arms, gets that faraway look in his eyes again. He’s off somewhere else, hiding in that big, law school-trained brain of his. Shoulders slumped, and the expression on his face stuck somewhere between a frown and pout, he reminds her of a sad puppy. He keeps flexing his left hand, and Seph figures that he might’ve injured it during the fight.

               “Hayden.”

               A couple of blinks, and he returns from whatever deep daydream he was in, flexing his fingers once more. With a strange rush of courage, Seph reaches across the table, takes his left hand in her right one. Someone sucks in a breath—it might be her, or it might be him, there’s no way to know, because a literal shock pops between their hands as she covers his sore knuckles with her palm.

              “You should see a doctor about this,” she says, gently, ever so gently, massaging the heavy, and nonetheless fragile bones of his hand. “You’re obviously in pain. Might’ve broken something when you punched that jerk’s lights out.”

              Hayden’s mouth has gone dry. He can’t remember the last time he’s ever held hands with anyone; it’s an intimate touch that he didn’t realize he’s craved. Seph’s ministrations are soft, and yet they ease the soreness that’s managed to develop there. He slowly twists his hand in her grip, and gently turns hers so that the palm faces up.

              “I thought you were mad at me,” he says, tracing the contours of her palm with his thumb. He’s never felt skin this soft before.

              “Who’s to say I’m not?”

               She’s smiling again, and it’s bright like the first break of dawn in spring. Damn, he wants to kiss her.

               Eyes the deep blue of a cold winter sky gaze up at her.  “Are you?”

               What in the world is she doing here, flirting with a billionaire? Why is he even giving her the time of day? She’s a poor, black girl in college who’s still trying to figure out what she wants to do with her life. Can’t even take care of her mom. She’s nobody.

               Her smile’s gone, and she’s pulled her hand away. _Shit, did I do something wrong?_ Hayden wonders.

               “Seph?”

               She sniffs, wipes some tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “ _S-_ sorry. I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now.” _God_ , she’s making a fool out of herself in front of this guy.

              “There’s no need to apologize, Seph.” She can’t look him in the eye right now because if she does the levies will freaking break, and there’s only so much embarrassment she can handle in one day.

               The waitress comes with their food, hot and fresh out of the kitchen, and Seph’s stomach rumbles, but she’s lost her appetite. She wipes her eyes again, forces a smile.

               “I’m not mad at you.” The tears threaten to come out again, but she holds them back. “I just…I don’t like seeing people in pain, y’know? I didn’t see Frankie writhing on the floor because…” She trails off, leaving Hayden hanging at the edge of her words. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t see him, but my friend told me what happened, and…it freaked me out, okay? I don’t even like him; he gives me the creeps. But I just…I just don’t like it when people get hurt, not even guys like Frankie.” Oh no, the tears are here. She’s falling apart in front of one of the richest men in the world. _Boy, will I have a story to tell Jess…_

                “ _S-s_ -sorry. God, I’m such a mess right now. I’m—I’m not usually like this, I swear.”

                Calloused fingers under her chin lift her head up. There’s concern in his voice and kindness in his eyes, and _why is he being so nice to me?_

                “Seph, you don’t have to apologize. I get it. _Believe me_ , I get it.”

                The whole thing is ridiculous—she’s blushing, she’s crying, she’s a storm of emotions and he’s seeing _all of it_.

                 “I have to—I have to clean myself up. I’ll be right back.”

                 He nods. “The restrooms are that way. I’ll be right here.”

                 When she returns from the ladies’ room, she half-expects their table to empty, but he’s still there, reading _Jurassic Park_. He hasn’t even touched his food.

                 “You could’ve started without me, you know.”

                 “Feeling better, I see. And I could’ve, but I figured that’d be quite a rude thing to do on a first date.”

                 “Oh.” Seph takes a bite out of her fish fillet. One plus: it’s still warm. “So this is a first date now?”

                 Hayden shrugs, takes a large bite out of his burger. After he swallows the first piece, he replies, “Only if you want it to be, Seph.”

                 “Well, if this _is_ a first date—holy cow, these French fries are _good_ —I feel like I’ve made a terrible first impression.”

                 “Not in the least.”

                  Seph’s still not convinced. “Okay, welllllll, if this is a first date, then I guess we should get the typical first date stuff out of the way.”

                  He leans back in his chair, playfulness written all over his face. “I’m game. Shoot.”

                  “Okaayyy…” Crap, what can she ask him? _Don’t ask something lame, don’t ask something lame, don’t ask something lame._ “What’s your favorite color?” _Nailed it._

                  “Hmmm. You know, believe it or not, I haven’t been asked this question in a while. Let me think…yellow. Yes, yellow is my favorite.”

                  “Really?” She didn’t mean to sound so surprised. _You’re blowing it, Seph._ “Um. I guess my next question is: why?”

                   Hayden shrugs, takes another bite out of his burger. “I dunno, really. It reminds me of the sun, I guess. Those crisp days when winter starts to change into spring. Sunshine on the mountain and a fresh breeze on a clear day. Yellow reminds me of all that.”

                  “Wow, that was corny.”

                  “Bahahahaha, okay, okay. Now it’s your turn. What’s your favorite color?”

                  “Blue.” _Like the color of your eyes._ Seph’s grateful that he can’t see her blush.

                  “Really?” he asks, mimicking her earlier surprise. “Why?”

                  “Oh no, you’re not gonna get me with that one, mister.”

                  “What can I say? It was worth a shot. Next question.”

                   She doesn’t hesitate; she has to know. “How old are you?”

                   His brows shoot up at that, and for a moment she’s afraid that she’s stepped over the line and this whole thing—whatever it is—will come crashing down. When he finally answers, his words come out slowly and deliberately.

                   “I’ll be turning 39 next month.” Seph tries to stay pokerfaced, but doubts that she’s able to hide her surprise. Obviously, she knew that he was older than her, but not _that_ much older.

                   “Is that a problem? You don’t have to put up with me if it is. I only wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday, and I…I got way ahead of myself. I’ll…stop talking now.” He’s not pale, but he’s not dark, either, and Seph can see his cheeks flush.

                   “It’s not a problem.” Really, it’s not—at least, not for her. Mamma, on the other hand, is definitely going to have a problem with Seph dating a man even older than she is. Although…it’s not like her mother would ever have to know. “You’re just—you look young, is all. I thought you were still in your 20s.”

                   He chuckles. “No, Seph, not for a long while now.”

                   Once they get past that hurdle, the rest of the “date” goes smoothly. They ask each other simple icebreakers, nothing too personal or on the nose, like the age question. He went to the University of Virginia for undergrad, got his law degree at Northwestern. He’s got two younger brothers, one who’s also a lawyer, and another who works as an environmental lobbyist, and sister who’s a counselor. Of his parents, he wouldn’t say much; just that he’s adopted, and that he changed his name to Underwood when he turned 18. Seph could tell it was a touchy subject, so she left it alone.

                   When he asked her what she wanted to do with her life, she debated on whether to tell him her pipe dream or give the standard ‘I don’t know.’ _Screw it_ , she decided. _If he thinks it’s dumb, I can always leave; I don’t owe him a thing._

                   “I want to be a Disney Imagineer,” she told him. “That’s my dream.” _That_ got them started on a debate about which Disney movie was the best, where her passion matched his logic, and of which there was no clear winner. In the end he said, “Go become an Imagineer so I can finally visit Disneyworld.” It sounded strange to her that Hayden Underwood, son of a billionaire and now a billionaire himself, had never gone to Disneyworld or even Disneyland on the west coast, but she decided to leave it alone. If he was comfortable about sharing that part of his past, he would.

                   “Challenge accepted.”

                    Altogether, they spent around three hours in the restaurant, just talking and enjoying each other’s company. He wasn’t pretentious; he took her silly questions in good humor and volleyed back some equally silly ones in return. It was easy, being with him; like coming home to an old friend.

                    When she finally realized what time it was, and that she would be incredibly late for class if she didn’t leave ASAP, he wrote his number on a napkin, gave it to her.

                   “My sister is coming into town on Friday and wants me to go to a salsa-dance-club-thing with her. Would you do me the honor of being my date?”

                    In her rush, Seph said, “Let me think about it.” But who was she kidding?

                    Later on that night, with her mother asleep and Seph safely insulated within the borders of her bedroom, she called him and told him, “Yes.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter here, with a heavy side order of smut. Enjoy, y'all. Please let me know what you think!

            

           Thursday passes by slowly. Underwood— _Hayden_ , Seph reminds herself—doesn’t show up, but she figures that’s a good thing, because it only makes the anticipation for her date with him grow.

           With all her giddiness, she can’t think straight, and the physics problem sitting in front of her might as well be written in Ancient Greek for how little she can understand it. She chews on the end of her pencil. 

           “Hey Jess, did you finish the third one yet? It’s giving me trouble.”

           “Yeah, here. I’m not sure if I did it right, but you can double-check.”

           “Thanks, boobear.”

           “No problem...Hey, Seph?”

           Seph eyes the problem and the solution Jess came up with. None of it makes any sense. “Yeah, Jess?”

           “Do you mind if I rant?”

           “Only if you don’t mind me half-listening. I need to finish this problem set.”

           “That’s chill. I just need to vent.”

           Seph nods; she definitely knows the feeling. “Vent away.”

           A cool breeze forces Jess to tuck her hair behind her ears. The weather is mild today, though perhaps not mild enough to warrant sitting outside. Still, as long as a rogue gust doesn’t kidnap her homework, Seph will enjoy the cool air of summer now shifting into fall.

          “See, it’s like this,” Jess says, finally deciding to pull her hair into ponytail, “I was at the LGBT resource center, and I noticed that the staff there was printing out new posters that said, ‘LGBTQA,’ with each letter having the term it stands for printed next to it. I thought, ‘awesome, our resource center is finally gonna stop participating in asexual and aromantic erasure,’ but _fuck no_. Do you know what they had printed on the poster, Seph?”

          “Nope. What’d have printed there?”

           Jess throws her hands into the air. “They had ‘Ally’ printed next to the ‘A’! _Ally!_ _Are you freaking kidding me?!_ Like, I wouldn’t have _such_ a problem with them putting ‘Ally’ on there, if they actually deigned to put what the ‘A’ in LGBTQA really stands for: asexual and aromantic, and if they put ‘Ally’ _behind_ those two labels. Like, that’d still be a little irritating, a little problematic, but allies want their cookie, so whatever; they can have their cookie. No offense, boo.”

           “None taken.”

           “And, like, this is a poster for the _resource center_. If the resource center prints out stuff that proliferates asexual and aromantic erasure, how the _fuck_ can people like us expect to be taken seriously by the rest of the student body? We might as well be unicorns for how much people believe in our existence, us aces and aros—and bisexuals, too, although at least their part of the sign didn’t get screwed up. And don’t get me started on the weaksauce stuff they’ve been pulling with the administration about gender-neutral bathrooms. Ugh. I fucking can’t right now. I can’t.” Jess stands, screams at the sky. Peripheral vision articulates to Seph that several people have turned their heads towards them to gawk. After about a minute of non-stop guttural rage against the heavens, Jess sits back down, and the passersby who were staring a moment ago have moved onto more interesting sights. Strange occurrences are a dime a dozen in the city; this one was just one of many.

           “Feel better?” Seph asks. Aha! She’s figured out the problem. _Took me long enough._

           “I guess. I don’t know...I just—I just don’t want my identity erased. Like, I’m _tired_ , Seph. My parents won’t take me seriously at all. They think I’m going through a ‘phase,’ or whatever.  For the longest time they thought I was lesbian because I never had any interest in boys, but now that I’ve told them that I’m asexual, they keep pestering me to get a boyfriend and get engaged. First of all, fuck that. I’m not getting married anytime soon, if I ever do. And, like, it’s impossible for them to understand that it’s not easy for me to do that. I just don’t feel attraction in that way. And, like, it’s just so dismissive of me as a person, and the one safe space designated for people like me fucks it up too, you know?”

           Seph nods, feels relief as she solves the next problem of her homework. “Girl, you know it get it. You know why I quit the Black Student Association.”

           “All the politics and colorism.”

           “Yeah. And I got tons of shit for it, too. So don’t worry—I feel you.”

            Jess sighs, leans back onto the grassy earth of the National Mall. “Man. Being woke sucks. I gotta tell you, Seph, sometimes…sometimes I wish I were still sleeping.”

           “Don’t ever wish for that, Jess. Someone’s gotta work to change things.”

           “True, true. It’s just. Ugh, it’s exhausting sometimes. But whatever. Hey, you done with that one problem yet?”

           “Oh, yeah! Sorry about that, here’s your sheet.”

           “Thanks. So, in other news…there’s a party tomorrow night.”

            Seph stops writing. “Jess, that sounds great, but—”

            “Hang on, hang on—don’t say you can’t go just yet. I know your mom gets cray-cray over stuff like this, but you can tell her that you’re crashing at my place for a movie night.”

            “It’s not that,” Seph says, shaking her head, “It’s just, well, I made plans already.”

             Jess sits up, pulls her knees to her chest. “Wait— _really?_ With who?”

            “Uhm…” Crap. _How am I supposed tell Jess I’m going on a date with the guy who sent her crush to the hospital?_ Seph swallows, tries her best to look sheepish. “The rando.”

            Jess’ purple eyeliner nearly disappears. “You’re going on a date with the guy who beat up Frankie? _Seriously?_ ”

           “Well, when you put it like _that_ , it sounds pretty messed up…”

           “It _is_ messed up! What the hell, Seph? Why would you do that? _How_ could you?”

           Seph sighs, puts her homework back in her messenger bag. She’s not going to get any more work done right now. “I don’t know. He asked me out to lunch yesterday to apologize about what happened during the fight—”

          “Because apologizing automatically excuses what he did.”

          “I know how it sounds; I was skeptical too, at first. For what it’s worth, he told me that he also wanted to apologize to you. Don’t look at me like that, Jess, come on. We just started talking, okay? I know what you’re thinking, but he’s…he’s really sweet, to be honest. He asked me to go dancing with him tomorrow.”

          Jess stares at her. “Unbelievable.”

         “It’s just a date, Jess.” Seph chews on the inside of her lip, observes the Capitol Building shining brilliantly in the mid-afternoon sunlight. Thoughts of her mother tug at her heart, attempt to distress her, but overall she feels good. “Besides, I kinda doubt anything serious is gonna come from it.” _Still, hope springs eternal…_

         “Oh? Why’s that?”

         “He’s older than me.”

         “Well, yeah.”

         “No, Jess—like, _a lot_ older. Like, 18 years older.”

         “Holy shit.”

         “Yeah.” Seph can’t stop the bubbling laughter that’s built up. “Yeah,” she giggles, “it really is a ‘holy shit’ revelation.”

         “But, Seph, like, are you _sure_ it’s a good idea to go on a date with this guy? First the thing with Frankie, and now you tell me he’s old enough to be your dad…I don’t feel good about this, girl.”

         Jess definitely has a point, and Seph’s thought long and hard about the implications and power differential in dating a man so much older and established than her. He’s a nice guy and all, but Seph’s cynical side nevertheless makes her extremely wary that he might be fixing to take advantage of her in some way. At this point, she’s heard enough horror stories that she’d be a total idiot _not_ to be at least a little cautious of him. And Seph is no fool: she can and will take care of herself, should she have to. “I’ll be fine, Jess, I promise.”

        “If you say so.” Jess frowns. “Where are you guys going?”

        “I think it’s called Habana Village? Not sure if that’s the place. It’s a Cuban restaurant and dance club in Adams Morgan. He’s going to pick me up from the student union at 9:00.”

        “You haven’t told your mom.” It’s not a question.

        “Pffft, hell no. I mean, I’m _gonna_ tell her; I just haven’t figured out how to break it to her yet. This is the same woman who refused to teach me how to drive until last year, y’know. Plus, we just had a huge fight a couple nights ago, so things are a little precarious. Could you cover for me if she goes cray?”

         Jess sighs, lies back down on the wet grass. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

        “I love you, bae.”

        “I know. I love me, too.”

* * *

 

        Hayden stares at himself in the mirror and grimaces. “This is stupid. I should’ve never agreed to do this.”

        “What’s wrong?” his sister asks. She’s sitting at his desk, rubbing Cerberus behind his floppy ears. As soon as she got into his apartment, she asked if he could get a fire going in his fireplace.

_“But it’s not really that cold yet, Sis.”_

_“I’d just feel better with it on. Be a dear, little brother, would you?”_

_“…All right.”_

        It was an odd exchange, but she had put up with him calling her by the wrong name at least _seven times_ without making a huge fuss, so he let it go. The time for snooping would come later, he figured; tonight, she’d do her best to make him feel at ease.

        He pulls his tie off in frustration, throws it on the floor.

       “Hayden?”

       “What was I even thinking, inviting a girl like that to go out with me? I’m twice her age!” Arms crossed, legs stride him around the room at a worried pace.

       “Hayden—,” his sister begins, but it’s too late; he’s off to the races.

       “She’s got her whole life ahead of her, and here I swoop in like a dirty old man. I need to call her; I need to cancel this. I can’t do it.”

       Small hands grip his shoulders: another anchor he can’t ignore.

       “Hayden. Look at me. Look at me right now. You need to relax. Whoever this girl is—”

       “She’s a barista,” Hayden says, eyes blank and staring off into space. “She thinks that _Beauty and the Beast_ is the best Disney movie, even though it’s so obviously _Fantasia_. Her favorite flavor of ice cream is strawberry, but if she has a chance to order a milkshake, she’ll get chocolate. She likes to garden in her spare time and her favorite flower is the Narcissus. She’s a little girl in college and I asked her out. She’s 21, Sis! _Twenty-one!_ She wants to be an Imagineer—I’m not even sure what that is! Someone who designs rides for Disney? I don’t even know! I’m going to ruin the life she’s building for herself. What kind of terrible person _am_ I?”

        “ _HAYDEN!”_ She shakes him, gets control of his attention again. “You need to get a grip, or so help me, I _will_ make you watch _Keeping Up with the Kardashians_ and _The Real Housewives of New Jersey_ with me.”

         Hayden’s eyes spread into pale, blue saucers. “Please don’t.”

         His sister grins: friendly, satisfied, and above all, mischievous. “Oh yeah, _now_ I’ve got your attention. Here’s the deal, little brother: was asking such a young woman out a good idea? Probably not, but I don’t know. Are you two at very different points in your lives? Yes…yes you definitely are, and yes, that’s awkward, but you also get along well, right?” Hayden nods, stiff and slow, a rusted wheel trying to turn.

         “Okay then,” his sister continues, “You are getting way, way, _way_ too far ahead of yourself. You guys aren’t even a couple yet and you’re already predicting so much about what’s going to happen with her down the road, when there may not even _be_ a road to go down in the first place. Remember that she also had a choice, and from what you told me, it doesn’t sound like you pressured her. Give her some credit: she may be young, but she’s a grown woman, and she said yes to you.” Hayden nods again, this time more vigorously. The wheel is no longer rusted.

         “She said yes to me,” Hayden repeats.

         “That’s right, Hayden, she did. This is just one date, and I don’t want you to feel pressured by it at all. You just go there, have fun with this girl, and call it a night, okay?”

         “…Okay.”

         “Good. Now, go put on that a dark gray shirt. Pink is not your color at all. I’ll pick out a tie for you.”

         Hayden lets out a shaky chuckle. “I swear, what would I ever do without you, Sis?”

        “Be a walking fashion disaster, is what. Where’d you even _get_ that pink shirt? Seriously, Hayden, we’re going shopping before I leave and buying you some new clothes. Now, hurry up and change that shirt already; I want to meet this woman.”

 _Me too, Sis,_ he thinks, smiling to himself. _Me too._

* * *

 

        Telling Mamma about her date went about as well as Seph had expected it to go—which is to say, not at all. Seph is quite certain that their shouting could be heard throughout the whole apartment building; perhaps even the whole neighborhood. In the end, though, it had to be done; she wasn’t going to lie to her mother about the fact that she was going out with a man.

_“You get back here right now, baby girl! You get back here right now or you never come back to this house again, you understand?”_

       Days ago, Mamma’s words would’ve made Seph cry; would’ve made her come running back into her open arms and beg for forgiveness. But that’s not what Seph would do today, no: today, Seph would fly—with or without the support of her mother. She’d show her that she _could_ fly. Certainly, Mamma’s words hurt and scared her, but Seph knows—hopes, at least—that she was just angry, and that she didn’t mean it when she said that Seph could never come back. _She couldn’t have…could she?_ With a rough shake of her head, Seph pushes the thought away.

       She’s only been waiting for a few minutes, but all the same, she’s severely regretting her decision to sit outside of the student union and wait for her date. The catcalls haven’t been helping with her anxiety, and right now she just wants to hide. Jess let her borrow a dark blue, backless dress, and while she felt sexy when she first put it on, she now feels incredibly exposed, almost as if she’s one step away from being naked. Another catcall, a hoot and a whistle from a frat guy that calls her “chocolate mami,” and Seph hugs herself; shrinks in on herself. _Come on, Hayden, get here already._ More jeers. Seph screws her eyes shut. _Please._ The sound of a couple vehicles pulling up gives her the courage to open her eyes again.

       “Whoo-whoo, look at those cars. Dayyyuuuuuuummmm, son.”

        Hayden steps out of his white Bentley convertible, casual and collected and effortlessly, astonishingly cool. As he walks towards her, his dimples visible and the corners of his eyes crinkled, the sounds of catcalls and obnoxious whistles disappear, and Seph’s heart plunges into her stomach. His normally messy hair is combed back, away from his face, and it looks like he’s trimmed his beard. And, miracle of miracles—his clothes! He’s wearing a black suit with a charcoal gray shirt and black tie, and he’s… _gorgeous_.

       “Seph,” he says in playful greeting, dimples still evident on his face. “You look lovely tonight.” This close, Seph can smell him. Fresh, clean, and a bit like cinnamon, whatever cologne he’s wearing is making her feel weak in the knees.

       “Thank you, Hayden.” She gulps, and hopes that it’s inaudible. “You’re looking very handsome tonight, too.”

        A woman walks up to them, garbed in a cream colored dress that contrasts well will her tawny, olive complexion. Brunette curls frame her heart-shaped, chubby face, and smile lines crease around her eyes and on the sides of her mouth.

       “You must be Seph,” she says, “I’m Holly, Hayden’s sister. Pleased to meet you.” Her voice is a comforting, warm flame in the cold nighttime air, but as they shake hands, the taunts and heckles return, and Seph feels her burgeoning confidence start to sink until…

        “Would you dickheads _shut up_?” The dimples are gone now, leaving only barely-contained fury in their wake. He’s dark, imposing, demanding…threatening, even, and finally— _finally_ —there’s silence.

         Seph’s tight clutch on her purse relaxes. “Thank you. Those guys were starting to get really annoying.”

        “I’m sorry you had to put up with any of that. I’ve should’ve gotten here sooner.”

       “Oops!” Holly interjects. “You know what, I just realized that I forgot something at my hotel. You two go on ahead, I’ll meet you there.” The sound of her voice covers Seph like a blanket.

        “You sure, Sis?”

        “Yes, yes, yes,” she says, brushing off his concern. “I’m down at the Sheraton. I won’t be long.”

        “Well, all right, then; see you in a bit. Seph?” He turns towards her, offers his elbow out to her. “Let’s go, shall we?” She takes it, feels the cord of hard steel he calls an arm against her slender frame. She wonders what it’ll be like to have his arms holding her as they dance.

        She realizes that doesn’t want to let him go.

        In the car, Hayden’s nerves are set on high alert. _Something must be wrong_ , he reasons.  _She hasn’t said a word during the whole drive._ He clears his throat, taps his thumbs against the steering wheel.

       “So, Seph…” Tap, tap, tap, tap. _Come on, you idiot, think of something to say!_ “How was your day?” _Brilliant. Just brilliant._ He wants to crawl under a rock and never see the sun again.

       “It was okay,” she answers.

       “Just okay?”

       “Yeah.” She’s hiding: there’s a wall between them now that didn’t exist before, a wall that she’s built over the course of the last few days. Everyone has their barriers and everyone needs them—Hayden certainly has plenty walls of his own—he only hopes that the walls she builds don’t end up turning into a labyrinth. It’s hard for anyone to find you then, even yourself. He decides to leave her alone for the rest of the drive.

        When they arrive at Habana Village, Hayden’s blood floods with apprehension. A heavy rock pins his chest, makes it difficult to breathe.  

       “Hayden?” Insistent fingers intertwine with his, and the nascent panic retreats. “Let’s go in.”

 _He’s got some kind of anxiety disorder._ She wasn’t certain of it when she first saw him that day in the coffee shop, but now, with everything she’s seen, she’s convinced of it. Seph doesn’t kid herself; she’s only taken Psychology 101 and is in no position to diagnose him, but she would have had to been _very_ hard-pressed to miss all the signs. _That’s probably why he has the service dog._ She gives his hand a gentle squeeze. It all makes sense. He shoots her a worried glance, and it’s the first time she’s seen his expression be this open and vulnerable.

       “Hey, it’s okay.” Another tender clasp of the hand, and he squeezes back. “I’m right here.”

        As she leads him onto the low-lit ambience of the dance floor, the heavy pressure on his chest returns. He needs to leave…but he _wants_ to stay. At last, she finds a large enough spot for them.

       “Uh, Seph?” Thankfully, the music isn’t outrageously loud in this place.

       “Yeah?” Seph turns to face him, no longer the one hiding. Now it’s his turn.

       “I failed to mention this before, but…I can’t dance.”

        She blinks once, in surprise or disbelief or both, but then a wide smile starts to spread across her face. “That’s okay. I’ll teach you. Right now the DJ is playing some bachata, which isn’t too hard to learn. Keep your back straight and bend at the knees. Here.” She places his hand on her exposed back, takes his other hand in hers, and Hayden struggles to swallow the cotton that’s built up in his throat. He can feel her small breasts against his torso; he hopes that she can’t feel the dampness of his palm on her back.

       “Now,” her breath puffs right into his ear, and it takes all his strength not to shudder. She positions herself so that her right thigh is in contact with the inside of his right thigh. “Bachata is danced in an eight-count beat. Just feel the rhythm, and I’ll lead. Don’t forget to move your hips.”

        In the background, the smooth intro of a new song slowly rolls off the speakers in waves, and Seph starts to sway from side to side.

        “Hahaha, oh my _God_ , do you understand what the singer is saying?” A suave tenor voice plays over the sound of a cleanly plucked guitar and a deliberate tempo.

         “I don’t speak Spanish, unfortunately.” _She’s so close._ Seph was never short to begin with, but her heels have made her a good deal taller.He could easily, with a small turn of his head, kiss her. _Don’t ruin this for her._

         “He’s saying something like, ‘tell me if you’ve ever done something naughty. An adventure is more fun if it smells of danger.’ Roughly. My Spanish is rusty. There! You’re getting it.” It’s a kind thing to say, but he knows that Seph is doing all the work. For all the grace he has in the ring, he’s a flatfooted ass when it comes to dancing. Thankfully, Seph is more than talented enough for the both of them, and whenever his clumsy feet ever threaten to crush hers, she elegantly steps out of the way, continuing their dance. As each new song bleeds into the next, she relinquishes her lead to him. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, she leans her head on his shoulder.

          “Seph,” he whispers, and in their proximity, she hears him. “Thank you.”

          “For what?” Hips sway in a cadence of sensuality, dripping from the clean picks of an acoustic guitar and the forlorn cries of a finely tuned piano. There’s that beaming smile again, along with the deep brown eyes that he wants to drown in.  Their bodies are pressed together, surging with physicality and dopamine drenching their senses, so that what’s real and what’s fantasy blend, until there is no longer a discernable line.

         “For saying yes.”

         Unhurried—that’s how it happens. A secret forms behind her eyes, a hope or a question, either option indistinguishable from the other. She leans in, against her better judgment, but nonetheless powerless against Fate. Soft lips press on his: a stolen kiss in the private darkness of the dance club. Eyelids flutter shut and pulses skyrocket. Fingers on her back try to bring her closer than she already is. Melding together and gasping for breath, all sensibility is lost.

         Once a softly glowing ember, the desire in his belly has grown into a blistering fervor. Seph may have started the kiss, but Hayden is the one who claims it; claims _her_ with his ravenous touch, eager to taste her. And she wants this too; aches for the unyielding body that’s flush against her. Her hands pull roughly on his hair, instinctively wanting to feel him. The coolness of a brick wall suddenly scrapes against her back, and in this, their dark corner, no one else exists.

         He hikes up both of her legs so that they can easily wrap around his hips and hug him close to her body and it’s _still_ not enough. She’s radiating ardor and sensuality and _holy_ _fuck—_ he _needs_ to have her, _needs_ to push up into her and lose himself to the pleasure of her slick heat, right here, right now. He’s broken the kiss, and frenzied pecks down the side of her neck shoot spikes of excitement down her spine. A throb has started in that hot place that rests between her legs; a wanton craving that only the body beneath her can satiate. Tightly pressed alongside the wall, she grinds on him for relief, and her breath hitches when she can feel his erection pushing against her. He curses, one hand digging his strong fingers into her hip to keep from dropping her, and the other hand roughly, desperately, working to pull her lingerie off. A change in the music distracts Seph enough to regain her presence of mind.

        “Hayd— _oh!_ ” The rough callouses, the practiced hands…he’s a musician, eliciting the sweetest notes from her. It’s good, _too fucking good_ , and she doesn’t want to stop; she wants to come apart right here.

        She can’t.

       “Hayden, _s-s-_ stop,” she sighs. She shuts her eyes, says it more forcefully this time, “Stop.”

        He freezes, looks at her like he’s done something terribly wrong, and gently guides her legs down to the floor so that she can stand. He rests his forehead on her shoulder, places both of his hands back on her narrow waist.

        “That was incredibly inappropriate.” His cool breath wisps against her overheated skin and sends a stampede of shivers roaring through her body, reawakens the persistent ache between her legs. “But you’ve cut me deep, Seph.” _I need you._ He kisses her neck again, and she can feel the smile on his lips. “Let’s go back to my place? Finish where we left off…” His right thigh is touching the inside of hers again. He’ll step back and return to the dance, if she wants. He fears that he may have pushed her too far.

        She can see the other couples dancing on the floor; each of them lost in their own worlds as the strings of an acoustic guitar tie their hearts together. The warmth of his hand envelopes hers.

        “Seph?” he asks, his question this time less a lust-soaked proposition and more a concerned inquiry. “Do you need me to step away?”

        “No.” The hands on his back keep him right where he is. She needs his warmth around her, his strong arms holding her, but she’s afraid. What if he’s using her? He could fuck her and then throw her away like a used tissue and not feel a thing, and she would be destroyed, because—goddammit—she’s caught feelings for the guy. Against all of her common sense and everything that her mother has ever taught her, she’s started to care for a man she’s only known for a few days.

       “I’m afraid.”

       “Of me?” Rough callouses caress her face, but the touch is gentle.

        What’s the harm if she has sex with him? If she shares a night with him, a single night, and she never sees him again?

       “You’re crying.”

        In the pursuit of her goals, she’s become so used to being guarded, so used to staying above petty relationship drama, so that now that she’s started to develop feelings for someone—real, genuine feelings that have pulled out the rug from underneath her innocuous crush and slapped her hard in the face with it—she’s overwhelmed.

        She feels him start to pull away, and it’s all she can do to grope at his back and keep him near her. “Don’t—don’t go. Kiss me again, please.”

        A myriad of emotions wash over his face, and hardened thumbs wipe away the tears that have dared to fall from her eyes. When his lips meet hers for the second time, it’s a tender gift of comfort that says, ‘I’m here. I’m right here.’

        When he places her on his bed, slipping her dress off in unhurried and measured movements, he kisses her the same way. Searing caresses move down from her neck to her collarbone, and soon she feels his breath ghosting over breasts, causing her nipples to draw tight. Here in his bed, his scent surrounds her, engulfs her. There’s so much she wants to say, but his lips, his hands, his tongue—he’s taken over, faded into her, and she can’t think straight.

        He pays attention to her breathing. Beads of sweat have cropped up on her forehead, and her skin tastes salty. _Real._ Because this is real: she’s really here, trembling under his touch, and no hallucination will ruin that. He laps at her nipples, massages the tense nubs with his tongue, and the cool gusts of his breath after he’s done with them leave her feeling molten. More hot kisses down her abdomen, drawing quick spasms and shy moans. Fingers pull on her panties, and down they go, fully exposing her to the chilly air of his bedroom, and suddenly Fear’s gnarled hands twist around her heart. She wants him, she wants him, but…

       “Hayden,” she exhales.

       “Do you need me to stop?”

        She shakes her head. “No, it’s just…I’ve never done this before.”

       “I’m right here.”

       “I know, just be…”

        He plants a hot kiss on her belly. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. Do you trust me?” Does she? _Yes,_ she realizes.

        Seph nods, gives him leave to continue, and he does. He rests his hands on her well-muscled thighs, rough palms rubbing like sand against her sensitive skin. Face right where her nerves are ablaze, he passes his tongue over her in broad strokes, up and down the lips and even on the insides of her thighs.

        He can feel her wetness on his beard; smell the heavy, intoxicating scent of her sex. She is a goddess. His queen. Tonight, he will be a god for her. He will be her king.

        He begins to focus on her clit, that smallest and most sensitive of spots, lightly sucking on it and applying the faintest pressure of his teeth. He hears her curse, a total loss of control somewhere between a roar and a moan. Her hips have started an almost imperceptible grinding motion against his face, and wild fingers tangle in his hair. He slides one finger into her, feels the involuntary clamp of her walls around him, and then slides in one more.  Soon, what started as a slow grind has transformed into a desperate rocking of her hips.

       “Oh, _oh fuck_ , Hayden, what—”

        Her orgasm burns through her, a wildfire that leaves nothing behind but scorched plains. She feels raw, winded, and out of control. He keeps sucking on her, keeps fucking her with his fingers as she rides the last waves down from her peak. When she at last returns from the obliteration of her senses, she finds him lying next to her, holding her.

        She places a hand on his still-clothed chest. “Hayden, that was…”

        He kisses her temple. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

        She looks down, notices the neglected tent in his slacks. “Hayden…”

       “Oh, that? Don’t worry; it’ll go away eventually.”

       “No, c’mere.” She grabs his tie, pulls him towards her. Eschewing tenderness for passion, she kisses him, hard. The groan she gets in response starts another low-burning fire within her.

        In a matter of seconds, his shirt is off, clawed away and forgotten on the floor. Running her hands up and down the hard muscles of his abdomen, she marvels at his sculpted torso, and occasionally grazes the trail of thick, dark hairs that reach for his belly button. His kiss becomes more insistent when she reaches the zipper of his pants, and soon he’s just as naked as she is, with his erection pressed against her thigh.

        He rolls onto his back, taking her with him so that her backside rests on the tops of his thighs. He reaches for his nightstand, pulls out a package of condoms, and she can’t stop staring at his dick.

       Obviously, she’s seen a dick before—in movies, and even in person a couple of times, when the occasional streaker has decided to run around campus. She’s even seen a hard dick before: Jess once dared her to watch a really strange porn movie when they were back in high school. A few of them, actually. But this is different; this is a guy who she’s kissed, who’s— _damn_ —gone down on her, and whose lap she’s currently sitting in, watching him as he rolls a condom down his length, and she suddenly feels a little apprehensive.

       “Uh. Am I—er, what am I…” _What am I doing on top?_ Seph wants to ask him. He can’t honestly expect a good lay from her if she’s on top, right? She’s never done any of this before.

       “I want you to enjoy yourself,” he answers, bringing her close and kissing the top of her chest. That’s not quite the truth. Really, he wants to _see_ her enjoying herself; wants to see her break into ecstasy all over again as she fucks herself on him. The thought makes him shiver. He holds her hips, guides her towards him.

       “When…” his words come out strained, “when you’re ready.”

        She sits on him, tantalizingly, agonizingly slow. He clenches his jaw, feels his belly grow taut. When she moves up, experimental and relaxed, he hears a sharp intake of breath. She moves down again, and he realizes that he’s on the verge of panting. He’s starting to get lost in her, starting to lose any and all sense that he has of himself.  There is no one else in the world he would rather disappear into than her.

        It hurts less than she thought it would. A lot less, although there’s still an uncomfortable pressure underneath the bizarre new sensation—the fullness—that his being inside her has given her. He sits up, kissing her breasts again, and she feels the light touch of his thumb on her clit once more. The fire in her is rising, and he’s fiercely fanning its flames.

 _Not now, don’t do it now._ Hayden shuts his eyes, does his best to control his breathing. He needs this to last, but the sight of her face, mouth open in bliss, her beautiful breasts bouncing as she rides him, is driving him to the edge fast. He buries his face into the crook of her neck, inhales. She says his name, and he begins thrusting into her, his pace ferociously measured, as hers is frantic. She’s going to climax again—he can sense it in her body, hear it in her heavy breathing—so he needs to stay here, bring her through it. Then, and only then, can he explode into nothingness while in her arms. _Hold on. Just a little longer._

       Soon enough, he feels her come, her inner walls clamping tight around him; and he finally allows himself the pleasure of release in three long, body-quaking spasms. He thinks he hears her shout his name, but that can’t be right; he’s no one now. She’s unmade him. When he relaxes in her arms, it’s her hands that put him back together.

       Later, relaxed on the bed and enjoying the feel of each other’s embrace, Seph runs her fingers through the curling hairs on his chest. “You know, I just realized something funny,” she muses.

       “Hmmm?” What is this feeling? Is he…is he actually content?

       “I think your sister stood us up.”

        Hayden considers her words for a moment, and then he starts to laugh. It’s laughter and joy like he’s never felt before, and he has to kiss her again.

        “Come here, you,” he growls, playfully pinning her underneath him. Her happy giggles send his heart soaring. “I still have a couple rounds left in me.”

        She arches an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. “ _Really?_ ”

        The dimples show up again, along with the crinkles around his eyes. Another kiss, and he says, “Let me show you.”

        That night, tucked into her warm embrace, the only dreams he has are of pomegranate trees in blooming fields of asphodel.


	10. Chapter 10

                Seph wakes to the choking smell of molten iron and the acrid heat of black, billowing smoke. The sky bleeds in a mixture of purples and reds and oranges, but when she looks for the light of the setting sun, the familiar golden star is nowhere to be found. Around her, endless fields of asphodel burn, and the agonized cries of millions of people assault her senses, with each and every wail shredding her empathy anew. She falls to her knees, desperately attempts to shield her ears from the tortured screams.

                A single voice, baritone and commanding, pierces through the madness. 

               “Do you see what she has done?” it asks. Seph turns towards the voice, and her heart nearly leaps out of her mouth.

               “Hayden, what…”

               But it can’t be Hayden. This man is too tall, his voice too deep, his hair white, and his eyes furious and threatening. And yet…and yet, she can see him there. He’s far away, yes, buried deep and hidden, but he’s there: a roaring current beneath seemingly still waters.

              “My name is not Hayden. Do not address me as such. I will ask you again: do you see what she has done?”

              Seph watches as the world burns around her. Despite the raging tongues of fire that threaten to engulf the two of them, all she can feel are the freezing chains of fear that have begun to link around her heart. “I see,” she answers.

              His shaking hands drop a heavy, black helm onto the dark earth, and the wind blows it away into dust. “I have waited aeons, enduring this destruction, just for the chance to see you again. You look as lovely as the day I first beheld your beauty.”  

              She blinks, and he’s suddenly in front of her. He smells of the sorrow of the grave; he smells of the great sadness of those whom the world has forgotten. The Lord of the Dead stands before her, a mirror image of his kingdom: drained of power and strength and the will to continue fighting.

              “That day when I claimed you, screaming and kicking in my chariot, I did not take you… _gently_ ; I did not take you as I did this night. You were frightened of me, and justly so. I selfishly tore you from everything you knew and held dear.” She feels his muscular arms wrap around her, hold her tight against his marble body. “Yet upon realizing your destiny…you opened for me like a flower, blossoming and beautiful—even as I ripped you away from the World Above.” His voice turns into a hoarse growl. “Even as I took you in my chariot and made you _mine_ , Persephone.” He gazes down at her lips. Heavily lidded and pupils dilated, his blue eyes burn darkly with desire.

             “Do you know who I am?” His cool breath tickles her mouth. Cradled in his caliginous hold, she can no longer see a thing. He has engulfed her.

             “You are Hades,” she breathes against his lips. Hard fingers push into her sides, grasping her tightly. All around her, she can feel him: his hands on her breasts, his teeth on the soft skin of her neck. He’s inside her too, now, a shadow thrusting in and out and setting her ablaze.

             “You see what she has reduced me to. What she has reduced all of us to.” His words burn through her, brand the most secluded corners of her mind. _Who?_ she needs to ask. _Who has done all of this?_ But he is everywhere—inside her, surrounding her, overwhelming her—and the only noises she can make are pleasured sighs against his unyielding lips.

            “Hear me now, Persephone,” he rumbles, his rich baritone so much angrier and sorrowful than the one she’s used to hearing. “When we meet again, the circumstances will be dire. War draws near for all of us, yet we remain trapped in a deep slumber.” He holds her, melds with her as they both climax and fade into one another. “I will be weak,” he warns against her ear. “But take heart, my love, and do not let me falter.”

            As consciousness begins to pull at her and the scorching world of his kingdom starts to disappear, his final words tie around her, cut deep into her flesh. “Know this, my great and fearsome queen, that even as I stumble, I have loved you; throughout the millennia, in different eras and frail lives; through diseases that plague the body, soul, and mind, I have loved you. Fiercely, Persephone, and with all that I am. My feelings have never wavered…though I have failed in my quest to be reunited with you. But if you walk with me through fire, as I am—human and mortal and weak beyond all things—I shall hold you in my arms once more…”

           Seph opens her eyes to the low light of the morning sun peeking through drawn shades, and her heart beats at a breakneck pace. The room around her is large, its walls painted in a warm, comforting gray. An enormous, mahogany bookshelf sits in one corner, along with what looks to be a custom-made desk, decorated with intricate carvings she can’t quite make out from this far away. On the wall across from her hang two maps of the world: one a modern rendition, and the other much older, with a disproportionately large Mediterranean region compared to the rest of the world. Where _is_ she? And what was that dream? _I need to get out of here._ She starts to move, but feels Hayden’s soft lips and beard tickling the nape of her neck. The events of the previous night unfurl in her memory, and she calmly leans back into his embrace.

           “Morning,” he says, kissing the top of her back. His sleepy voice caresses a place in her heart she didn’t know she had. Seph turns in his arms, faces him. The dimples, the look of absolute joy and wonder, the way he’s holding her—she can’t believe that she just had a dream about Hayden where he was so unlike what he is right now. She kisses him, wanting to make sure that he’s really there. His hands move to her face, keeping her close, and he sighs into her mouth. She prefers the man in front of her to the one her imagination created.

 

          Breaking the kiss, he leans his forehead against hers. He’s never felt this way before. She has him wrapped around her finger and he’s powerless against it.

          “Did you sleep well?” she asks him.

          “I did.” _Better than I have in years._ “How did you sleep?”

          Uncertainty flickers across her face, but she gives him a quick peck. “Great,” she answers, smiling.

          A vicious blow from a sledgehammer hits him, knocks the wind out of him. _I love her_ , he realizes.

          Heart swelling, he gasps, “You’re so beautiful.”

          “You’re so cheesy,” she laughs, scrunching her nose. He playfully bites her chin, causing her to erupt in a storm of giggles.  

         He loves her, deeply and irrevocably—he fell off the cliff into a great abyss, and he has absolutely no problem with it. He suddenly wants to tell her…everything. _Don’t be an idiot,_ he chides himself, _you’ll scare her_. This might all be completely one-sided on his part—in all likelihood, it is—and he doesn’t want to run the risk of saddling her with things she never asked for. No, he won’t tell her everything…but that won’t stop him from enjoying the time he has with her.

           “You hungry?” he asks, tenderly rubbing his thumb in circles on her cheek.

           Seph raises her eyebrows. “What, are you offering to make me breakfast in bed now?”

           There’s a loud knock on the door before he can answer.

           “Master Underwood!” a reedy, old voice calls from outside.

           “I’m _busy_ , Charon!” he shouts at the door.  

           “I deeply apologize, Master Underwood, but this is urgent!”

            Hayden sits up, shaking his head. “Sorry about all this,” he mutters, pulling on his boxer briefs and pants. “I’ll be right back.”

            “I’ll be right here,” Seph says, and Hayden can hear the tender smile on her lips as he opens the door.

            “What is it, Charon?”

            The old man fidgets under his gaze, wrings his small, leathery hands. “Terribly sorry, sir,” he begins, sneaking a quick peek behind Hayden and instantly confirming his worst fear. “The police are here.”

             Hayden’s eyes grow wide. “ _What?_ ” Panic shoots through him, and he can hear the drums start to crash in his ears again. “Why?” he croaks, lost to the fear.

             “I believe they are here for the, ah,” Charon pauses, searching for the right words, “lovely young woman lying on your bed.”

             Hayden glances back at her worried face, and a thousand different scenarios race before his eyes.

             He loses her in all of them.

              _Not today_ , a sharp, unfamiliar voice growls in his mind. Hayden sets his jaw, clenches his fist. He roughly brushes past Charon. _You will not lose her today, and you will not lose her again._

              No—he most certainly will not.

 


	11. Chapter 11

            

         Lying in a field, he rests and keeps her close. Warm bodies relaxing next to each other, they hold each other in a familiar, comforting embrace. The sound of rushing rivers and waterfalls sing in the crisp air: they are in Elysium.

              His queen turns to face him.

              “The time draws near,” she murmurs, planting a lazy kiss onto the side of his neck. Her words shear through him, leave him in tatters.

              “Stay.”

              The corners of her luscious lips turn up. “As long as I am able, Aidoneous…”

              “As long as you are able? Persephone, each time that you leave to the world above, every second that you are gone cuts me to down to the bone.”

              She laughs, beautiful and melodic, and he can’t believe that she’s here in his arms. “You are so dramatic, my dear king.”

              Kissing the the top of her head, he smiles, and yet…even as holds her close, dread scrapes and claws at him from the inside out. Once she leaves, he knows, somehow, that he will never see her again. He needs her to stay with him. “Only because I love you.”

              “And I you.”

              “Stay,” he repeats. “Stay with me.” _Please. Please don’t fade away from me._

              “ ‘Stay’? What do you mean by that, Hayden? Oh—oh my, your nose is bleeding! Would you like a tissue?” Dr. Murphy. He’s sitting in Dr. Murphy’s office, which means that it’s…Monday.

             “Yes, Dr. Murphy. Thank you.”

             “No problem at all, Hayden. Now, what did you mean by ‘stay’?”

              He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Could we go back to what we were discussing before?” No hole in his pants to pick at today, and the bookshelf has been moved to the other side of the room. Montserrat Murphy squints her obsidian eyes, crosses her fleshy arms.

             “We’ve talked about your feelings of loneliness and isolation before,” she says matter-of-factly, leaning forward in her chair, “Has someone broken through that?”

 _Yes_ , Hayden wants to say. But then he tries to find her, tries to see her face again in his memories, and sharp blades plunge in his belly, make it hard to breathe. Where is she, and why can’t he find her?

             Panic: loud drums beat in his ears and the rapid rhythms of war pound in his chest. “I don’t know if these drugs are working anymore, doctor.”

_Where is she? Where is she? Where is she, where is she, where is she, where is she..._

             “Don’t deflect, Hayden.”

             His eye twitches. “I’m not deflecting.”

             “Yes, you are. You do this every session, and I’m going to be honest: I’m starting to become very concerned. I know that these things are tough to talk about, but it’s something you need to do if you want to make progress. You’ve mentioned your feelings of isolation before, but only in passing. We’ve never gone beyond the surface of these feelings, and we need to. _You_ need to. I understand that you had a… _difficult_ childhood. Your father was…physically and emotionally abusive towards your mother and siblings. You’re angry, and you have every right to be, but that’s _all_ I know.

             You’re not _well_ , Hayden, and that’s why you’re here. The great thing is that you want help; you recognize that you need it. But I can’t treat you—I can’t _help_ you—if you refuse to open up and let me in.” Oh, Dr. Murphy: sweet, well-intentioned, overzealous Dr. Murphy. He’s used up all her patience, and now she’s gone too far and broken through his walls without permission.

             With no memories of the last few days, and a demanding need to recover them, his already waning self-control cracks. “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ Just shut the hell up, Dr. Murphy, _for the love of God._ ” He doesn’t want to be cruel to Dr. Murphy—he knows that she’s only trying to help—but he lost something precious to him. _Someone_ precious to him, and his heart aches, and he _needs_ to find her.

             He flexes his left fist. The bruises on his knuckles have turned from red and purple and to black and yellow, and they fucking _hurt_.  He gasps—the cops! The cops, the cops, the fucking cops—they came to his house, his home, because he… brought _her_ there. Leaning forward, pounding head hanging between his knees, he exhales her name.

_Seph. Seph, where are you? Where did you go?_

            “Hayden.”

            The world tumbles and splinters on its final bounce. He’s sitting up again, and the bookshelf in Dr. Murphy’s office is right back where it’s supposed to be, behind her desk. Did he snap at Montserrat? He doesn’t know whether what just happened was real, or if it all took place in his fractured mind.

_Nothing makes any sense._

            “Are you all right?” Worried lines crease through her tan forehead.

            Hayden loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeves. He’s suddenly very hot and uncomfortable. He’s not all right; he’s not all right _at all_.

            “I apologize, Dr. Murphy.”

            She nods, says that he has nothing to apologize for, and that if he would like to continue talking about what he thinks triggered his plunging spiral into her office, he is more than welcome to.

           “You want me to talk about the cemetery again?”

           “I want to unpack it, Hayden; I want to see how it might connect to your past and everything that’s been happening to you within these last few months.”

            They’ve had this exact same conversation before at least a dozen times, and the good doctor has never gleaned anything of value from them. He shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think the meds are working anymore, doctor. If you don’t mind, I’d rather discuss that. I’m—I’m starting to lose days.”

            “Tell me about the cemetery, Hayden.”

             He clenches his fists, and his sore knuckles force him to bite his lip. Is she not hearing him? “Doctor, the medication. It’s not working anymore.”

            “Tell me about the cemetery, Hayden. Tell me about what you saw there, again. I need to hear it.”

             He bristles. “My head’s fucked up and the meds you’ve got me on have me sleepwalking through my life, and you want me to talk about the fucking _cemetery?_ ”

             “Do it now.”

             And he can’t argue with her any longer because as soon as he blinks, he’s standing in the middle of Arlington National Cemetery again, caught in the beeswax of a memory and getting drenched in the life-giving rains of spring.

             It was March 31st. Two steps to the right is where his client should’ve been standing, mourning the death of her veteran father whose funeral had just taken place only one hour prior. To his surprise, she didn’t want to cancel; she said it was urgent that they meet. That’s how it was supposed to go, anyway.

            Of course, that’s not how it went.

            Instead of his client, a young man, so pale that he was almost translucent, was lying on the ground and relaxing in the rain. His gray t-shirt had a crosshatched graphic of a human skull on it that read: “YOLO—Unless you’re me.” He had his alabaster hands folded behind his mohawked head, and when he opened his eyes, Hayden found that they were pitch black—pupil, iris, and sclera all.

            Stunned, all Hayden could manage to say was the obvious: “You’re not my client.”

           “Haha, nope, ‘fraid I’m not. I lied about that part, sorry. Although, I _was_ beginning to wonder if you’d show up, but you’ve always been super anal about arriving exactly on time, so I should’ve known better,” the young man replied, pierced lips turning up in a crooked grin. “It’s been a while, Boss.”

            The boy’s voice reverberated throughout Hayden’s body, made his head throb. Massaging his temples, Hayden asked, “Do we know each other?”

           “We do.” The kid stood, and suddenly his young face looked as though he’d lived a thousand lifetimes. No—a _million_ lifetimes. “It’s a pity you don’t still don’t remember. Last time we met, you were a Medici bastard dying from the plague, and you didn’t know what I was talking about then, either. I thought that it’d be different this time, but…” He sighed, trailed off. Looking up into the sky, he shouted, “You win again! The world’s going to shit, but you win again! The Boss ain’t ready! I hope you’re happy, bitch!”

 _What the hell is he talking about?_ “Hey, kid,” Hayden said, “we’re in a somber place. Have some respect for the people resting here.”

           The young man turned to look at him, one arched eyebrow betraying annoyance, amusement, and surprisingly, hope. “The dead are going to need more than just respect, Boss.” He stepped closer, and soon Hayden could feel bony, white fingers pulling on the shoulders of his blazer. “You want them to rest? Wake the fuck up.” This close, Hayden saw billions upon billions of brilliantly shining galaxies in the young man’s black eyes. _What in the world?_

           “What makes you think you can touch me or talk to me like that, you little punk?” Vehemently, Hayden pushed the kid away, causing him to trip and hit his head against the edge of a gravestone.

           “Ouchie! Damn, okay, Boss, no touch-y, I get it. No need to shove people, jeez. You could’ve killed me! I mean, not _me_ , but if I were someone else, Boss—”

           “Stop calling me that,” Hayden wheezed; his lungs burned as if he’d just done twelve rounds in a championship bout. And, despite the cool air and rain, he was sweating profusely.

           “Call you what?” the young man asked, slowly standing up and rubbing the back of his bruised head.

           “Stop calling me ‘Boss.’”

            There was that crooked grin again, and Hayden felt a strange sense of déjà vu. _Maybe I really have met him before?_ he wondered, and his breathing became even more labored. “What, you want me to be a kiss-ass and call you “Your Highness”? Or “Your Grace”? Sorry, Boss, but I ain’t about that life. Haven’t been for few thousand years, to be honest. And you never liked that shit anyway.”

            Heart racing, body cloaked in fear, the boy’s words tortuously flayed off a layer of security—this conversation was dangerous. “ _Excuse me?_ I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, kid. I don’t know you, and I’m certainly not your boss.”

            The young man pursed his lips, tongued at the silver piercings from inside his mouth. “Damn, they _really_ fucked you up this time. Probably knew that this would be the last chance to change things before the Other Side finally freaking disintegrates. No boatman, no rulers, Furies and Minos MIA, Phlegethon burning out of control, Tartarus overrunning—I’m just one dude, Boss. Handsome and competent, and a great karaoke singer to boot, but still just one. Hecate’s been doing her best to help out too, but we can’t do _everything_. First it was the Titans, and now the giants are running things into the ground literally everywhere. Your brothers stuck up here for a couple thousand years? Fine, s’not like they ever did their damn jobs anyway. Or maybe they did, I don’t really know or care: their shit wasn’t in my sphere of influence, catch my drift? Nope, ‘course you don’t. Don’t know why I thought you would—none of what I’m saying makes any sense to you. Look, Boss, just listen: we need you and Her Grace back already, so get your shit together.”

 _Titans, giants…Is he talking about Greek mythology?_ The pounding in Hayden’s head grew worse and he heard what sounded like war drums start to beat in the distance. _He’s fucking nuts._ _I’m stuck in the middle of Arlington Cemetery, in the rain, with a guy who’s completely batshit._ “Look kid,” Hayden said, putting up his hands in what he hoped was a pacifying gesture, “I don’t know who you think I am, but—”

          “Ha!” the kid laughed, throwing his head back. “I get it, you think I’m crazy; I can see it on your face. I shouldn’t be surprised. You did last time too, back in Florence. Your mind getting stuffed in a blender will do that to you, sure, but it’s not my mind that’s being fucked with.” He suddenly glared at Hayden, furrowed his dark brows. “It’s yours.”

          Hayden cocked his head, peered at the strange creature in front of him. Even with his umbrella, the rain still soaked through any sense of protection his clothes gave him. Soggy, cold, and frightened, he wanted to go back home. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and for a short second, Hayden thought that he saw a skull in place of the young man’s face. The kid’s countenance shifted back to normal quickly, but soon feathery, shadowed wings spread out from behind his back, and Hayden’s stomach twisted into an incredibly tight knot.

         “Ah,” the kid puffed, satisfied. “I know that look. I wanted to see what you were like nowadays. They screwed around with you quite a bit this time, I gotta say, but…there may be hope for you yet, Boss. I’m keeping my fingers crossed, because otherwise, we’re fucked.”

          The enormous wings flapped, and Hayden’s shaking hands finally dropped the umbrella. “ _S-s-s-_ stay away from _-m-m_ _m-m-_ me,” he stuttered, slowly backing away. _This isn’t happening_ , he thought. _This can’t be happening._

          “Don’t worry, I will…for now. I’m sure you’ve got tons of questions, but I can’t answer them for you.” The beating wings started to lift the young man off the ground and sent gusts of freezing wind through the air. Hayden shivered. “I’m ‘fraid you’ll have to get through this yourself. But I think you’ve got this. I hope you do, anyway, because if not, this world is screwed.” Hovering in the air, the young man paused, gave Hayden a gentle smile. “I know I said that I’m not about that life, but…it was nice to see you again, Your Grace—I hope that Fortune is on your side this time, and ours. Take care.”

 _This has to be a dream_ , Hayden reasoned. He was sleepwalking, or he had a terrible hangover from the previous night’s loneliness-induced alcoholic binge. Certainly, it couldn’t be real; it had to all be in his head.   
               …But if that was the case, then what did it mean for his head?

           Hayden blinked the rain from his eyes, and the young man was gone.

           It was his first hallucination.

           “Hayden!”

           “…Holly?”

           “Zane mentioned that you’ve been getting spacey but Jesus, Hayden, don’t scare me like that! What the hell is going on with you? I know seeing Mom the…the way she is right now is hard, but you can’t just run out.”

            A great smith smashes Hayden’s head against an anvil, making gigantic waves of nausea roil in his stomach. This can’t be right. He was in Dr. Murphy’s office, talking about the man he met in Arlington. Unless…

_I’ve lost more hours._

           A soft hand touches his shoulder, and he flinches. “Hey, little brother, what’s wrong? You…you seem so far away from us nowadays. You know that we’re all here for you, right? I feel like…like we’re so close to losing you to something, and I don’t know why or what this thing is that’s taking you, but you’ve changed.”

          His mouth drops open. “You—you feel like you’re losing me?”

         “Yes, Hayden. You don’t talk to any of us anymore and I’m so worried about you. Please, little brother, please: don’t shut us out. Tell us what’s going on.” She’s watching him intently. Hayden recognizes the look from their childhood; it’s the same look she would get when their father would decide to throw them in the basement for days or weeks at a time. He’s terrifying her, like the Old Man used to…

         He feels like he’s been shot.

         Vomit threatens to crawl up his throat and out of his mouth and onto her. He covers his mouth, turns, and finally retches onto the street.

         “Oh my God, Hayden!” Worried hands pat his back, and the poison that spews from his mouth comes out black and slick like crude oil. “It’s okay, I got you, I got you,” she keeps whispering. The sound of heavy footsteps clicking on the damp concrete pierces through her mantra.

         “Hayden, what the _fuck?_ Mom is waiting for us back there and—aw, hell!” Shit, it’s Zane. Zane is going to see him like this, and he’s powerless to stop it.

          Rough palms press against his forehead. “He’s got a fever.”

          “I have, I _h-_ have, I have to _f-f-_ find…” Choking on the black liquid, Hayden can’t get his words out.

           More footsteps, and then a bewildered, “What’s going on?” and he knows that Peter gets to bear witness to this as well.

          “Peter, call an ambulance.”

          “On it.”

          “No!” Hayden screams, black spit flying from his mouth. “I have to find her! The cops, the _h-_ hours, the…” The more he talks, the more his headfeels like it’s being hammered into oblivion. “I’ve—I’ve lost _t-t-_ time!” _I’ve lost her!_

         “Cops? What? What’s he talking about? What cops?”

         “…It’s a long story, Pete.”

         “I don’t know,” Zane interjects. “He’s delirious and his eyes are fucking bloodshot. Probably using again.”

          Holly’s arms wrap around Hayden’s shoulders. She’s protecting him, and his lungs burn with the need to scream. “Really, Zane? You’re going to bring that up now? Right now?”

          “Hayden’s an addict and addicts relapse, Holly.”

          “You don’t think I know that? Jesus, Zane, he’s been sober for over a decade, come on!”

          “So? Hell, you were at his apartment. Don’t tell me that you didn’t see anything fishy there. He had Zoloft in his trash when I visited two weeks ago— _Zoloft!_ Maybe he’s got a script for _that_ , but with the way he’s been acting, I’m positive he’s got needles stashed somewhere. Look at the guy: he’s a fucking mess. He’s been a mess for months. This is what addicts do; don’t get mad at me just because you can’t read the signs. _You’re_ the damn social worker. Don’t be so naïve.”

          “Wow. Unbelievable. You are such an _ass_. I’m not a goddamn child, Zane. I can’t even look at you right now—Jesus, Hayden! What are you doing? Stop!”

          “I _h-h-_ have _t-t-_ to…” He tries to stand on shaking legs, and his words come out as breathless rasps. His nerves are raw, and with every movement he makes, he wants to bawl. “I have to _f-f-_ find her.” Zane’s firm hold on his back and belly is the only thing that keeps him from crumpling to the ground again. “ _S-s-_ seph. I _n-_ need to find _S-_ seph.”

          “You’re in no condition to go find anyone, Bro, least of all that new girlfriend of yours.”

          “…The cops…”

          “Yeah, yeah, Brother, I know.” Zane moves underneath Hayden’s shoulder to better support him. “Come on, big guy, let’s sit you down over here. Peter, did you call an ambulance?”

           From the corner of his eye, Hayden can see his younger brother shaking his head. “Not yet. He seems to be doing better now. I figured we could drive him to the hospital if he gets worse.”

           Zane nods. “Good call, Pete.”

           Sitting, Hayden can feel heavy weights pulling his eyelids down. He wants to stay awake, _needs_ to stay awake, but the weights are too heavy and he is too weak. When he inevitably falls asleep, the flaming tongues of a burning river lick at his hands and feet.

          “Seph!” he cries out, letting the acrid smoke of the surrounding environment sear through his throat. Pain overwhelms him as the realization finally dawns: in this world, she cannot hear him.

           In this world, he is completely alone.

           With that terrible knowledge, he dives headfirst into the flaming river, and it’s there that his lost, mute memories start to speak again.


	12. Chapter 12

             

               “ _How could you?_ ”

                Mamma’s words struck hard and left an angry, lingering sting, but Seph was determined to not falter in her resolve. This was it: she knew, deep in her bones, that this conversation would dramatically alter their relationship. She held her chin high; she was finally ready to face her mother.

                “How could I? Mamma, how could _you_? I’m twenty-one years old: you can’t keep me from going on dates, and you can’t just—you can’t just call the freaking _police_ because I don’t come home.”

                “You could’ve been kidnapped or killed or worse!” Her mother stood, wiry strength and dignity pouring from her straight posture. She’s a hard woman, as world-weary as she is full of love for her daughter. Tough as her mother is, though, Seph feared that this would be the final crack to break her into a million pieces…a million pieces that Seph would have no hope of putting back together.

                “I was on a _date_ , Ma! I _told_ you and a friend where I was going.”

                “Don’t think I don’t know who you were with, child! Hayden Underwood? I know that name, and I know it well. He’s an older, rich white man: what in the world is he doing going on a date with a poor, black girl, who’s young enough to be his daughter?”

                 Mamma saw right into her slowly healing insecurity and sliced the wound anew. Tears started forming at the edges of her eyes, threatening to fall.  Seph’s confidence was beginning to falter.

                 “ _Y-_ you don’t know him. He’s—he’s not like that.”

                 “You’re right, baby girl, I don’t know him,” her mother nodded. “But neither do you. How long have you known him, Seph—a few days? Baby, I didn’t raise you to be naïve. This man is taking advantage of you. You wanna be mad at me for calling the cops? Go ahead, but I did it for you: I called the cops, because when older, rich, white men bring poor, young, black girls home for the night, terrible things happen. Terrible, terrible, awful things. Baby, you know that…or at least you should.”

                 Seph crossed her arms, hugging herself. She suddenly felt very small, and very, very stupid. _Hayden…Hayden’s not like that._

                “I love you, Mamma,” she said, desperately trying to keep her voice from stumbling. “But…but you’re—you’re wrong about him.”

                Her mother’s trim brows drew together. Demi Primavera was losing her daughter’s love to a stranger. Hayden Underwood: lawyer and heir to an incredible fortune. She saw him in passing years ago—Seph was around eight or nine—and she had still been working as a lobbyist for farmer’s rights against Monsanto and Tyson. It was a losing battle, but she was still happily married and living in a comfortable home. She had Seph young, perhaps too young, but things were working out well, and Demi felt like she could do anything—even take on corporate giants.

                On the steps of the Capitol Building is where she first saw his cold eyes. He was young, although still older than her, and speaking to the man who she would soon find out was none other than the founder and CEO of the Weyland-Brooks Corporation—one of the largest global conglomerates in the world. His name was Charles Underwood, and he had a long, angular face, with a large and rather sharp nose: the kind of face you would get if a horse had somehow mated with an eagle. His salt and pepper hair rested in perfectly-coiffed curls on his square head, and small, violet eyes squinted out at her in the sunshine of midsummer.  On that day in the House of Representatives, he proved to be one of her greatest adversaries.

               He was a man evil to his core, as far as Demi was concerned, and the adoptive father of supposed business prodigy, Hayden Underwood. Demi wasn’t sure about the young Underwood being a prodigy of any sort, but she did know this: the two men certainly shared a similar coldness in their demeanor and countenance.

               They were both her opponents in her quest to make a better world.  

               She walked past them, in a way that she thought was gracious and worthy of their respect, and caught a bit of the heated, private conversation they were having.

              “I can’t be a part of this anymore, Charles.”

              “ _You_ can’t be a part of this anymore?”

              “Your company is willfully destroying the world.”

              “Ah, I see,” Charles Underwood said, holding back laughter. “A few years in college, and now you’re a Marxist who wants to save the whales and the rainforests and the whole goddamn fuckin’ world. Let me tell you how things are: we live in a planet of limited resources, and my company makes these resources available to 75% of the world’s population at fairly reasonable prices, be it food or clothes or computers or what have you—we have our fingers in everything, you know. Do a few forests get chopped down; do a few whales lose their precious whale lives? Yes, yes they do…but this is business, Hayden, and in business, power belongs to those who take it.

              People die in workplace accidents, people suffer in debt to the very company they work for, and the world keeps turning, never stopping, and if you are not the man with the good shoes—the man with the power—then you are the man shining the shoes or the man getting stepped on. This is how things are, and you should know that better than anyone.

              But you say that you can’t be a part of this anymore? _You_ , who likes to shoot up dope before meeting with clients? Ah, ah, ah, don’t say a word: I found out your little secret, that’s right. But you’re smarter than this, Hayden; don’t look so surprised.  I wouldn’t mind so much if it were cocaine—I occasionally engaged in that, especially back in the 80’s, but Jesus, Hayden, _heroin_? For fuck’s sake, you’re not some low-income inner city black kid; you can’t be doing _heroin_.

              Again, you say you can’t be a part of this company anymore—well, if you keep doing drugs, you’re goddamn right.  I brought you into my home not only as a favor to your mother, but also because you have talent. _My_ home. I paid for your schooling, I’ve made you my heir—I will _not_ tolerate this stupid behavior from you any longer. I did not agree to raise a stupid boy; I agreed to raise a smart young man. That said, if I find that you’ve been doing drugs in my house again, boy, you’re going to wish that I left you with that alcoholic father of yours. And enough with this liberal, hippy-dippy bullshit. Do you understand me? I’m serious, Hayden. Do. Not. Try. My. Patience.”

              The younger Underwood simply shook his head and turned. When she saw his face, Demi felt her entire body grow cold.

              “Ma’am,” he said, nodding at her. “Excuse me.” He needed to walk past her, and she was in his way. She stepped down, and as he strode by, she could see the barely-contained rage in his eyes.

               She had never felt so much fear and hatred before in her entire life.

               The minute that her precious Seph told her that she was going on a date, she knew it was with _him_. Of all the men in the world, of all the men Seph could meet in the city, it was Hayden Underwood _,_ and Demi knew this truth in the core of her heart. She shuddered: the mere thought of his name made her feel frigid inside.

               “He will use you up and throw you away, just like your father did to me,” she continued, determined to make Seph understand, determined to make her _see_. “Just like he did to you.”

               “You can’t know that!” Seph yelled, tears streaming from her eyes. “Just because Dad left us, it doesn’t—it doesn’t mean that every man is garbage!”

              “My God,” Demi gasped, finally grasping the depth of her daughter’s feelings, “you love him, don’t you?”

Seph’s eyes grew wide. “ _Wh-_ what? I don’t—I don’t know. You can’t just—you can’t just ask me something like that, Mamma.”

              “Jesus, you _do_. You love him,” Demi repeated. “Oh, my poor, beautiful, baby girl…what bullshit did he tell you to make you fall this hard, this fast?” She tried to keep her tone sympathetic for her daughter, but inside she was furious. Hayden Underwood had dug his dirty claws deep into the most precious person in the world.

              She would make him pay, and dearly.

              “ _No-_ nothing,” Seph stuttered. _He was just himself._ She bit the inside of her cheek; she was losing this battle. He was kind to her—genuinely kind, and gentle. Seph’s eyes fluttered shut, remembering the way he held her. “He’s just very sweet to me,” she said finally, exhaling.

             “He’s very sweet to all the girls, child.”

             Seph wrung her wrists, stuck her chin out defiantly. “You’re wrong about him, Mamma.”

             Back in his arms—that’s where she wanted to be, and her memories took her there.

            “What’s this?” he asked, kissing the long scar that ran down her hip.

            “I was…I was in a car accident back in high school.”

             He flushed. “I’m sorry, Seph. I didn’t mean to—”

            “No, it’s fine. I…I just haven’t talked about it in a while, is all. My mom and I were on the freeway, leaving Baltimore.  It was late at night, around 10:00 or something like that, and a drunk driver swerved into us as we were getting off at the exit. I don’t…I don’t remember much after that. I had to have a few metal pins inserted into my hip, and the doctors told me that they had to give me a lot of anesthesia to knock me out. I stopped doing ballet because of it. My mom got the worst of the deal, though—partial paralysis in her left arm because of a spinal injury. She still works, but it’s…harder now.”

             As she spoke, Seph knew that he was hanging on every word. He was actually listening to her, and listening intently, as if she’d just told him the most interesting story in the world. She ran her hands over his chest, noticing occasional circular discolorations.

           “And these?” she asked, placing her palm on a small cluster near his clavicle. He flinched, looked away from her.

           “…Do you really want to know?”

           She kissed his cheek, and his beard tickled her lips. “I do, but you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

           He finally looked back at her, open and scared, and she gave him another tender kiss. He sighed, bringing her close. Foreheads pressed together, he whispered, “They’re cigarette burns.”

           “Hayden…” His words wound tightly around her heart, refused to let go. “I’m so sorry,” she said, placing her hand back on his chest. She could feel his heart beating rapidly.

          “I have them on my hands, too,” he said, breathlessly. It was as if now that he finally started talking about this, he couldn’t stop. “Not as many, but they’re there. The Old Ma—I mean…I mean, my _f-_ father was…well, he tried to be careful when it came to my hands. He didn’t want anyone to know, but he wanted me to see them, so he was…cautious.” Hayden swallowed, shutting his eyes. “Sometimes, when I smell cigarette smoke, they still burn,” he finished. He was trembling.

          “Oh my God, Hayden, I’m so…I’m so sorry.” She felt terrible for bringing up such a painful history. A car accident was one thing, and awful in its own right, but abuse hurt in other ways, and she could see the pain on his face when he spoke.

          “Don’t be.” He opened his eyes again, and she saw sadness and anger there, but she saw compassion, too. “It was a long time ago.” He kissed her again. “Right now, I just want to be here, present with you.”

           Hayden was a fighter, a boxer, a warrior, but he was also awkward and intelligent and sweet and gentle and kind. And he was all of these things at once, in equal measure. Seph shook her head. Her mother had to be wrong. She _had_ to be, or else Seph opened her heart up to someone the exact opposite of who she thought Hayden was, and that would destroy her.

           “You’re wrong about him,” Seph repeated, because she needed to believe her own words. “Not every man is a monster. He’s not.”

           “He’s a drug addict.”

           Seph glared at her mother. “Bullshit. How could you—how could you possibly _know_ that?”

           Demi told her, and Seph couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “So…you’re telling me that you overheard a private argument that happened over a decade ago and you expect me to believe he’s still addicted to freaking _heroin_? You expect me to believe that he was ever addicted in the first place?”

           Demi’s nostrils flared. Her daughter’s foolishness was starting to make her very angry. “You need to listen to me, baby girl,” she gritted through her teeth. “This man is not good for you. No men are, really, but this one in particular is bad for you. You want to be an engineer for Disney—how the hell you gonna do that if you in a serious relationship with him, hmmm? How, baby girl?”

           Seph clenched her fists. The room was getting unbearably hot. “As if you’d ever let me leave to California or Florida to even fucking do that. Sure, you’ll threaten to kick me out of the house, but when I actually _leave_ , just to go on a freaking date, you call the goddamn cops and tell them that I’ve been kidnapped!”

            Seph felt the sting of a sharp slap on both of her cheeks.

            “That is _enough_ ,” her mother seethed. “I’ve had it up to here with your disrespect, and I am done. You want to be a dumb, black whore for a rich man who you just met, and who’s twice your age, you can get the hell out of my house. You can get the hell out, leave, and pay for school on your own, and be the adult you wanna desperately be, baby girl. Go fly. Throw away everything you want out of life for this man, throw me away, but don’t expect my blessing.”

              Seph was wrong; her mother hadn’t been the one in danger of shattering into a million pieces. It had been her all along.

              “Mamma, I don’t want to throw you away,” she cried, trying to hug her. Demi would have none of it, though; Seph needed to learn, and she needed to learn the hard way.

               “Get out, baby girl,” she said, keeping her voice as level as she could. This wasn’t easy for her, either. “Pack what you need and leave my house.”

               After that, neither one spoke to the other. Seph packed her things, holding tightly onto what was left of her emotional control. With lines of dried tears marking her face, she kissed her mother on the temple as a goodbye.

               She would go to Jess; Jess would have her back, right? Fear made her falter. _What am I doing?_ She wanted to hug her mother, she wanted to have a girl’s night and drink cheap wine and watch _Dirty Dancing_ with her. She didn’t want this; she wanted anything but _this_. She looked back at the door of their small apartment, shut on her forever.

               “If you’re going through hell,” Seph whispered, “I guess the only thing you can do is to keep going.”

               Many days have passed since then at Jess’s house, without a word from Hayden, and Seph is starting to worry that her mother was right; that he was only using her for one good fuck, or two, or three, and now he’s done. _No_ , Seph chastises herself, _the night would’ve gone much differently if that’s all he was after._

                Still…no texts or calls from him, and when _she’s_ tried to call or text, he hasn’t answered.

                “Maybe he’s busy. The cops _did_ show up at his house,” Jess offers, stuffing a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Maybe he’s still dealing with that?”

                “Yeah, maybe…” _Please, Hayden, don’t prove my mother right…_

                “You could always just go to his house. You know his address, right?”

                “Yeah, but wouldn’t that be super…I don’t know…psycho or something?”

                Jess shoves another handful into her mouth. “Goddamn, this movie is shit. And it would be totally psycho, but you’re anxious A.F. about this, so I figured I’d offer you something to do. Another mojito?”

                 Seph’s phone starts to ring. “Thanks, boo, but—holy shit! It’s him! Hang on.” Jess lowers the volume on the TV.

                “…Hayden?”

                “Seph. God, it’s you. You have no idea how good it feels to hear the sound of your voice.”

                A rush of emotions flows through her. She’s angry with him for not talking to her for so long; she’s very upset about her mother; but most of all, she’s happy that he _did_ call her. Her mother can’t be right about him. She _can’t_ be.

               “Where’ve you been, stranger?” she asks, doing her best to keep the mood light. “I tried calling you a couple of times, but you wouldn’t pick up.”

               A pause on the other line, and then he speaks. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately. Kind of lost in my own head for the past few days, you know? I’m sorry for not calling you. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to see you again. I had some, ah, _issues_ that I needed to sort out, but I’ve found that I can’t stay away from you for very long.”

               She smiles to herself. “Is that so, Mr. Underwood?” His laughter soothes her wounded heart.

              “Oh, yes,” he answers, voice suddenly coming out as a husky growl. “When can I see you again?”

               It’s the same voice he had when he…

               “Tonight,” she replies, her cheeks burning. “Meet me at the Waterfront.”

               Somehow, she knows that he’s smiling on the other end of the line. “Will do, Miss Primavera. See you tonight.”

               “See you, Hayden.” She hangs up, holds the phone close to her chest.

               “Wow, girl, you’ve got it _baaaaaaaddd_.”

               She smiles at her phone, thinking of his tender kiss. “Yeah, I really, really do.”

 

 

* * *

 

                The night that Seph left, curled into a ball and digging painful scratches into her skin, Demi cried, as she never had before.  Through her tears, she released all the pain that she had been keeping inside for the last few years, and she wailed in her suffering until all that remained was a pleasant numbness. She would win her daughter back.

                For her own sanity, she would have to.


End file.
